


driving home for Christmas

by montecarlos



Category: Formula 1 RPF, GP2 Series RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, Angel Wings, Angst, Christmas, Crying, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Porn, Rimming, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8764792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montecarlos/pseuds/montecarlos
Summary: A collection of Christmas fics, both F1 and GP2, to spread some Christmas cheer.





	1. all i want for christmas is you (sean/antonio)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for the wonderful Chesca who sends me wonderful photos of wolf Ollie and is the queen of Seantonio. I hope you enjoy this fluffy goodness :))

Sean settles down into the armchair and sighs heavily at the icicles hanging from the bay windows of the apartment he shares with Mitch. It’s strangely quiet without Mitch - the Kiwi dragging Alex halfway across the world to meet his family. He misses him already, misses the larger than life persona that Mitch eludes, that he fills the apartment with. It’s cold inside the apartment without him - but he knows he won’t be alone for long. Antonio is spending Christmas with him. He finds himself pulling the ring out out of the pocket of his jeans for what seems like the sixteenth time. Flipping the small velvet box open, he glances at the ring shining in amongst the mint green velvet. It’s something simple - just a simple silver ring that has the words  _ Seanotelli & Tonio 2010  _ engraved on the inside - Antonio hates anything too flashy and something with a huge diamond would invite questions.    
  
“Antonio Giovinazzi, will you marry me?” He says out loud, practising the same line he’s been practising for weeks. He sighs heavily - it sounds wrong, it sounds too formal he thinks. “Tonio, will you be my husband?” He tries as he glances down at the ring, tries to imagine Antonio standing before him.    
  
He wonders if Antonio says no, what he’ll do - asking the Italian to marry him seemed like the next logical step. They’d been together for an awful long time - over six years. Nobody had ever made him feel like Antonio had made him feel - the sparks still flew when they kissed, when Antonio’s hand brushed against his own - a loud knock on the door knocks him out of his reverie and he quickly snaps the lid shut, tucking the box back into his pocket as he moves over to the front door. He opens it, smiling as his eyes lock on the person standing on the doorstep. Antonio stands before him, bundled up in the dark green scarf that Sean had bought him a few Christmases ago, some white snowflakes sticking in his thick dark hair.    
  
“Seanotelli,” Antonio says, grinning widely.    
  
Sean grins back, his hand folding over Antonio’s. He pulls the shorter Italian in for a kiss, their lips brushing over each other for a moment. Sean melts into the kiss - his lips ghost over Antonios, his hands moving to lightly cup at the Italian’s cheeks. His fingertips brush against the wet soft curls of Antonio’s hair, the snowflakes are beginning to melt. The box rubs against Antonio’s thigh and Sean panics, pulling away from his boyfriend with a smile. He ushers Antonio in and allows him to hang up his coat.    
  
“Want some champagne? I got a fresh bottle,” Sean asks as he ushers Antonio into the lounge.   
  
He remembers the box still hidden in his trouser pocket and panic floods his chest as he watches Antonio fold himself onto his couch. He runs through the idea in his head - it had been Mitch’s idea actually - “drop it into his champagne,” Mitch had said with bright brown eyes fixed on the ring gleaming in Sean’s hand. “And when it takes a sip, drop down on one knee,” Mitch had said. Sean wonders if it’s too cliche as he pops the cork on the champagne bottle. He pours the fizzy amber liquid into the only two champagne glasses he and Mitch own - he’s certain that Alex brought them over once upon a time. Looking at the fizzy liquid bubbling up, he wonders if this is the right thing to do. He takes a deep breath and pulls the box out of his pocket quickly. Pulling the ring free of the the velvet, Sean drops it into one of the champagne glasses. He thinks about Antonio, about the first time that they laid eyes on each other, about their first kiss under the stars in Italy, about how they were all bad hair and bad skin and Sean thought that Antonio was out of his league even then -    
  
“Seanotelli?” A voice snaps him out of his thoughts. “Didn’t you hear me? I said no drinking tonight, not when we have a flight to catch tomorrow,” Antonio stands behind Sean with an eyebrow raised as he glances over at the glasses. “I can’t drink this tonight,”   
  
Before Sean can say anything else, Antonio picks up both glasses and upturns them both into the sink. Sean watches in horror as the ring disappears down the drain, Antonio seemingly has no idea of what the glass contained as he rinses them out in the sink. Sean feels the panic ghost over his chest - this was not how it was supposed to go - Antonio was supposed to find the ring in the bottom of his empty glass and his eyes were supposed to widen as Sean got down on one knee - but it hasn’t, he thinks. He tries not to panic as Antonio makes them both a cup of tea, as he leads Sean over to the couch and they fold against each other. They cuddle together into the couch but Sean can’t settle - knowing that the ring is still somewhere in the drainpipe - he makes a note to get it out when Antonio goes home.    
  
He fires off a text to Mitch to let the Kiwi know that his plan sucked as he strokes Antonio’s hair, glancing at the snow still falling outside. Antonio settles against him, his breathing evening out and Sean watches him sleep, watches how relaxed he becomes against his chest. He looks beautiful resting against Sean, his fluffy dark hair ruffled by Sean’s playing and by the cold winter wind outside, his dark eyelashes hiding the green-blue eyes that he loves so much. Sean knows he wants to marry this boy, knows that he wants to spend the rest of his life with him.    
  


* * *

  
  
He manages to fish the ring out of the drainpipe in the morning when Antonio scuttles off to some super important Prema meeting. It gleams in his hand triumphantly as his fingers curl around the hard ring of metal - he thinks about just taking Antonio to some restaurant and just getting down on one knee, Mitch had suggested sticking it in Antonio’s pizza but Sean had visions of his boyfriend choking on it. He had recently watched Antonio wrap up the presents for his sister and his mother on the floor of the lounge, the Italian getting excited over the prospect of using shiny paper and bows to create a beautiful present for the special girls in his life.    
  
It’s how Sean got the idea in the first place - to hide the ring amongst Antonio’s other presents. He’s gone a little overboard this year with treating the Italian - he’s bought him a new pair of Converse to replace his tatty old ones, several new shirts, some of the cologne Antonio likes and a few DVD boxsets he asked for. He places the ring into the final box and wraps it up carefully, sticking the biggest bow he can find on the top. It looks ridiculous in and amongst Antonio’s other presents - but Sean can’t stop the smile from brushing over his lips as he writes on the tag.    
  
_ To my soulmate, my best friend, my everything.  _ __  
_ Buon natale _ __  
_ All my love, Sean x _ __  
__  


* * *

  
  
Antonio wakes him up early that morning - practically bouncing up and down in between the sheets as Sean blinks away the sleep from his eyes. “Wha? What is it?” Sean asks, voice still heavy with sleep as he rubs away the tiredness, smiles at the wide grin on his boyfriend’s face.    
  
“It’s Christmas,” Antonio says softly, smile still wide on his lips as he tears himself out of the bed. Sean really wants to go back to sleep but he thinks about the ring tucked up under the tree and reluctantly climbs out of the bed, following his bouncing boyfriend down the stairs. Antonio makes a beeline for the box containing the ring, but Sean shakes his head.    
  
“Open that one last,” He says as Antonio places it back down and picks up another box, beginning to unwrap. Sean has his own gifts to unwrap, ones that are beautifully wrapped up by Antonio, but he loves watching the gleeful look on his boyfriend’s face.    
  
“Seanotelli, open your presents!” Antonio announces as he opens the box containing his new Converse with a smile. Sean reluctantly fulfils his boyfriend’s request - unwrapping a new pair of bright red Jordans.    
  
“Tonio, you didn’t have to-” He says softly, admiring the brand new shoes.    
  
“You’re my boyfriend,” Antonio says simply as he unwraps the boxsets next, his eyes roving over them. “You didn’t have to get me all this,”   
  
“I want to spoil you,” Sean admits, as he unwraps a beautiful soft leather jacket - it’s clearly expensive - his hands brushing over the material. Antonio knew that his old jacket was on its last legs and this new one is beautiful and buttery soft. “Tonio-”   
  
But the Italian pays no attention as he unwraps his cologne, thanking Sean as the pile slowly decreases. Sean stops unwrapping some new socks - presumably with tiny racing cars on them - as Antonio picks up the last present. He eyes it quizzically, tearing into the colourful paper, only to turn confused eyes to Sean as he’s faced with another slightly smaller box covered in paper.    
  
“Sean, what on earth-” Antonio begins with a raised eyebrow as he turns the box around in his hands, unwrapping the next layer only to find another smaller box.    
  
Sean bites back a laugh as Antonio unwraps the next box, only to groan with frustration at the sight of another smaller box sitting in his hands. “Sean, what the fuck is in this?”   
  
“You’ll see,” Sean says as Antonio tears through the next three layers of paper - the boxes slowly getting smaller and smaller as he progresses. Sean feels the laugh bubble up on his lips as Antonio gets more and more annoyed at the growing pile of boxes and ripped up paper at his side - until Antonio reaches the last box. Antonio doesn’t seem to register what is in his hands as he gazes at his boyfriend with frustration playing across his face.    
  
“I can’t believe you spent so long pranking me, Seanotelli,” Antonio says as he shakes his head in distaste, before he finally glances down at the box in his hand. As though a switch is flicked on, his eyes go wide and his skin goes pale at the sight. “Sean, what is this-”   
  
“Open it,” Sean says, thickly, watching Antonio’s fingers shake lightly as they flip open the lid on the box. He can feel the gasp that brushes from the Italian’s lips at the sight of the ring shining brightly in the light as he drops down on one knee in front of Antonio. It seems ridiculous in a way he reasons - they’re both still in their pyjamas with sleep mussed hair - but it seems right to them, normal even. His eyes lock on the dark green ones of his boyfriend.    
  
“Tonio,” Sean says softly, his lips suddenly dry. “Tonio, will you marry me?”   
  
Silence sinks over the room as Antonio’s eyes slide from the ring to Sean still down on one knee, eyes locked on the Italian. Sean worries his lip - wonders what he would do if Antonio says no, if Antonio decides that this isn’t what he wants - however, as the seconds tick by, Antonio’s lips pull into a wide smile.    
  
“Yes, yes! Sì! Sì!” Antonio says, jumping up and down. “Of course, I’ll marry you!” He calls out. Sean grins as he pulls the ring out of the box, examining it carefully in the light from the Christmas tree. His eyes rove over the engraving, taking in each word, tears coming to his eyes.    
  
“Sean-” He whispers as Sean gently takes the ring from his fingers, holding onto the Italian’s hand as he slides the ring onto Antonio’s finger carefully. It’s a perfect fit - it sparkles on Antonio’s fingers as though it were supposed to be there the entire time. Sean feels the smile brush over his lips as Antonio sinks down into his arms, their lips slowly meeting. Sean grins wider as Antonio’s ring covered finger ghosts against his cheek as their lips dance over each other. The presents lay forgotten on the floor as Antonio’s lips move slowly over Sean’s, as his breath dances over his face.    
  
“I love you,” Antonio whispers against Sean’s lips. “My fiance,”


	2. i really can't stay (pierre/max)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre really really has to get home, it's a shame that Max doesn't think the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my wonderful best friend Emma. I hope you enjoy this one sweetie :)

Pierre sighs heavily at the thick blanket of snow that carpets the front windowsill, the flakes still falling from the dark sky. He glances out into the darkness, the snow is thick and heavy - Pierre’s never seen snow like it before, illuminated by the dim yellow light of the streetlamp outside. Suddenly, he feels warm, strong arms wind around his waist, a pair of soft lips brush against the sensitive skin on his neck. Fingers brush over his cashmere sweater, as breath ghosts over the fine hairs on the back of his neck.    
  
“You’re not thinking about leaving, are you?” Max’s thick voice cuts through the silence, his lips still brushing against his neck. “I mean, it’s so cold outside,”   
  
“I really can’t stay,” Pierre says softly, still gazing out of the window. “It’s getting heavier-”   
  
“But you shouldn’t be going out in this, Pear,” Max cuts in, his breath still ghosting over Pierre’s skin. “You should stay here with me,”   
  
“But my dad will be worried about me,” Pierre says, his eyes still fixed on the falling snow.    
  
“But you’ll freeze out there,” Max mutters, his lips peppering kisses against the pale, freckled skin. “You could stay overnight,”   
  
“Or you could lend me a coat,” Pierre says, raising an eyebrow at his boyfriend as Max continues to kiss his neck - feather touches against his skin. He turns around in his arms, his blue eyes meeting his boyfriend’s darker blue ones. “I swear you’re just trying to keep me here,”   
  
“Maybe I am,” Max smirks, leaning in to press his lips against Pierre’s. Their lips meet - Max’s are slightly chapped from the cold as they move against Pierre’s colder ones. Pierre whines into the kiss as Max’s hand fists into the back of his cashmere sweater, their moans mixing in with the sound of the crackling fire. The kiss deepens as the two young men fold into each other, the snow suddenly forgotten as Max’s tongue slides over the crease of Pierre’s lips. Pierre opens up his mouth and allows Max’s tongue to push in - he tastes like the mulled wine they had earlier, the spices brushing over his tastebuds.    
  
Max moans against him, mutters something about tasting so good - their lips still twisting together. Pierre reluctantly pushes his mouth away, trying not to stare at the saliva still shining on Max’s plush lips.    
  
“Stop trying to make me stay,”   
  
“Is it working?” Max mutters under his breath, smirking widely at his shorter boyfriend. His hand moves out to cup Pierre’s cheek, his thumb rubbing over his skin. Pierre leans into the touch, Max’s hands are warm against his cheeks.    
  
“Maybe a little,” Pierre admits, as Max leans in again to brush his lips against the corner of Pierre’s lips. “I have missed you,”   
  
“I hope you did,” Max says, peppering kisses all over the freckly pale skin. “Don’t go,” He murmurs. Pierre can’t help but realise how fragile his tone is, how pleading his eyes look. He looks so little like the confident man who occupies the podium, the youngest race winner in history. He looks so skittish, so shy and it’s that side of him that Pierre fell in love with.  Pierre finds his eyes pulled away from the falling snow outside the window, to gaze upon the bright blue eyes of his boyfriend.    
  
“Max-” Pierre says breathlessly, as Max’s hand curves with his own, tugging him away from the snow covered window. They fall onto the couch together, the fire still crackling in the hearth. Their lips immediately meet as Max’s hand slides underneath Pierre’s cashmere sweater, forcing a gasp from his mouth. Max’s hands are cold against his skin as he slowly slides the sweater away from Pierre’s skin.    
  
“You’re beautiful,” Max mutters lowly as he slowly pulls Pierre’s sweater away, the Frenchman shivering as the cool air makes contact with his skin. “So beautiful,” Max admits, his eyes roving over the pale skin of his boyfriend before he captures Pierre’s lips once more. Pierre moans into the kiss, feeling his swollen cock brush up against his tight jeans. The fire continues to crackle away in the hearth as Pierre arches up against Max, their bodies moving against each other.    
  
“Max, fuck-” Pierre bites out as Max pulls away for a moment - pulling his shirt over his head, shucking out of his pants. Pierre watches him with interest, watches the pale skin be revealed, shining in the dim light of the fire. However, he chokes back a laugh as Max’s boxer shorts are revealed - there’s tiny Santas on them - and they look ridiculous to Pierre.    
  
“What?” Max asks with an eyebrow raised, following Pierre’s eyeline down to the novelty boxer shorts. His cheeks immediately colour bright red. Pierre smiles at the blush dancing over his cheeks before he leans in, tugging Max back down to capture his lips. Their lips dance over each other - the only sound is that of their lips connecting together and the crackle of the fire as Pierre’s fingers move to slide underneath the thin material of Max’s boxer shorts, pulling them down slowly.    
  
“Fuck, Pierre, I need you,” Max groans out against Pierre’s lips before the Frenchman pulls away, pressing Max into the cushions.   
  
His boxer shorts are pushed down his hipbones, showing off the thick line of hair dusting down his abdomen. Max’s cock lays flat against his leg, slightly swollen and heavy with blood - the end is slightly wet with a drop of shiny pre-come resting on the slit. Pierre’s eyes lock on Max’s for a moment before he drops down, his hand curls around Max’s cock. Max gasps out as Pierre’s mouth envelops his half-hard cock - his fingers grabbing into the soft material of the couch as his eyes take in the sight of his half naked boyfriend in the flickering light of the fire.    
  
“Pierre,” Max calls out as he feels his eyes slide shut - Pierre’s mouth is warm and soft around his cock, the Frenchman’s tongue slides slowly over his shaft. He groans out at the sensation, Pierre has always known what to do - his mouth moves down the shaft, tongue swirling over the slit as Max’s hands find Pierre’s hair and fist into the soft curls. Pierre groans against his cock as Max tugs on a strand of hair behind his ear, the Dutchman’s fingernails scraping over his scalp.    
  
“Pierre, fuck-” Max mutters, arching against the couch cushions, his boxer shorts still twisted around his legs as Pierre’s hands dance over his skin, over his hipbones, tracing every inch of skin. Pierre’s tongue sucks lightly against his shaft, swirls up over the entire length and traces the vein - and Max feels the warmth curl over him as he feels his cock become coated in a glistening sheen of saliva. The fire continues to crackle in the background - interrupted only by the sounds of Pierre’s mouth on his cock.    
  
Pierre hums against Max’s cock, as the Dutchman continues to tug on his hair as Pierre’s hands move to trace over his hipbones, his lips brushing over the younger man’s cock. Max closes his eyes, allows the warmth to take him over as he thinks about Pierre, thinks about how beautiful he looks half naked bent over with his mouth around Max’s cock. He jolts as Pierre’s hands move to slowly massage his balls, his warm palms tracing over the sensitive skin. The warmth intensifies, curls over Max’s lower abdomen as he sinks into the couch cushions again, as Pierre’s tongue swirls over the tip of his leaking cock. He’s getting close - he can sense the sensitivity in his balls at Pierre’s gentle strokes, as Pierre’s tongue dips into his slit. He gasps out and arches into the soft touches of his boyfriend, as the warmth takes over - his eyes slide shut as he twitches, his orgasm overwhelms him. Pierre catches every drop of come in his mouth before he pulls off Max’s cock with a pop, his lips shining with saliva and semen. Max watches him, panting lightly from the exertion, his eyes locking on his boyfriends. Pierre smirks as he leans in and licks Max’s cock clean from come - the smirk doesn’t fade even as he shifts back against the cushions, his tongue swiping over his lips with satisfaction.    
  
Max can’t do anything apart from lean back into the couch cushions, the fire still crackling and casting shadows over Pierre’s face. Pierre doesn’t say anything as he grabs a blanket from where it’s been thrown haphazardly over the couch and moves to lay beside Max. The blanket is thrown over the pair of them - it’s a sweet gesture, a contrast to the person that Pierre was a few minutes ago - but Max finds himself not caring. His hand curls around Pierre’s shoulders, pulling him closer. He feels the sleep itch at his eyelids, Pierre’s head falling against his shoulder.    
  
The fire continues to crackle, the snow still falling outside the darkened windows, but none of that matters to the two men curled up together under the blanket together. The only thing that matters to them is each other. 

 


	3. please come home (carlos/dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany worries that Carlos will go back on his promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the wonderful Abby who has helped me so much over the past week or two, I love you and I hope you enjoy this :)

Dany sighs heavily as he glances around his apartment one last time - at the Christmas tree with all the lights twinkling gently on the branches, at the presents carefully laid underneath all wrapped up in beautiful shining paper. It looks perfect - too perfect to Dany - he’s not used to such festivities. Christmas isn’t a _thing_ for him and his family, it’s just a time for them to spend together. They haven’t spent Christmas together ever since they found out about Carlos, about him being gay, their dreams of grandchildren and the perfect picket-fence life for their only son destroyed. It’s never been the same since, he thinks as he walks over the cold tile floor of his apartment - Ufa sparkles beneath him through the window, enveloped in snow. He wanted to stay back at their apartment in Monaco - the one that he asked Carlos to move into a few months ago - but Carlos wanted to spend it in Russia for some reason, and well, Dany could never say no to the Spaniard.   
  
He taps out another message to Carlos as he glances out of the window - he’s flying in from Barcelona and Dany is a little concerned if he’ll make it or not. He thinks about spending Christmas alone, thinks about all the presents under the tree that would stay unopened. He tries to think about spending the day alone in his apartment in Ufa - the snow is still falling gently from the dark sky. The message sends and Dany looks out over the illuminated landscape - Russia looks beautiful at this time of year - but it just serves as a reminder of what he was trying to get away from. He finds himself lying down on the couch, pulling the blanket over himself as he checks through the messages that Carlos sent last night.   
  
Chili: _Don’t know how I’m going to get all the presents I’ve got you all the way to Ufa_   
Danya: _You really didn’t have to buy me anything_   
Chili: _Who says it’s that kind of present? ;)_   
  
Dany remembers smirking at the message as he types out his reply. Carlos has always unlocked things inside him that he never thought possible, he’s always managed to bring out the inner confidence in Dany that he never saw before. But now, his phone is silent. His heart tells him that Carlos is probably stuck on the plane, probably glancing down at his own phone and cursing the fact that he can’t speak to Dany. But his head tells him that he’s being stupid, that Carlos isn’t going to show up, that he is going to be all on his own. He thinks about how he’s going to be sat on his own on Christmas morning, his phone still silent - his mother and father would laugh and smirk as he called them - I told you so. They had warned him about Carlos, about him breaking his heart. Dany watches the snow gently fall from the sky, it dances through the air. It makes him think about Carlos, about the first kiss they shared in the snow - he remembers it as though it were yesterday.   
  
“Danya,” Nobody said his name quite like Carlos did. Dany finds himself unable to tear his gaze away from the beautiful dark brown eyes of his best friend. There’s snowflakes sticking into Carlos’s dark curls, clinging to the sweep of his eyelashes. “What’s wrong?”   
  
“Nothing, I-” Dany finds himself whispering, his eyes locked on the snowflake clinging to Carlos’s tanned cheek. He’s being in love with Carlos for as long as he can remember - he doesn’t remember what’s like to not look at the Spaniard and his chest to not feel like it’s bursting.   
  
“I know you,” Carlos says softly and Dany wants to curse under his breath because he’s right - Carlos knows him better than anyone, better than himself. “I want to know what’s wrong,”   
  
Dany looks away. He has to. He doesn’t want to ruin anything between them. But Carlos moves closer, his breath dancing over Dany’s cheek. Dany can see the snowflakes melting on his eyelashes as his lips part, as he leans in and brushes his lips against Dany’s own. Time seems to stop in that moment. He can focus on nothing but Carlos’s lips against his own - they’re soft but chapped, they taste strange against his own - he can’t place the taste. It’s just undeniably Carlos. Carlos pulls away gently, slowly, his brown eyes fixed on Dany.   
  
“I’ve waited so long to do that-” He whispers, saliva still clinging to his lips.   
  
Dany, however, doesn’t allow the Spaniard to finish his sentence before he claims Carlos’s lips once more, the snow still clinging to their hair and to the shoulders of their coat. The memory seems to fade away before Dany’s eyes as he’s pulled back to reality, to the swirling snow outside painting patterns on the window, to the silence hanging around the apartment.  

  
He checks his watch and worries his lip. Carlos should have landed by now, he thinks as he gazes out over the empty and darkened street. He should have called by now, should have let Dany know he was safe. He tries to push the panic down, tries to pretend that it doesn’t linger in the back of his mind - he thinks about what his parents would say, how they would taunt him, they would say that Carlos never loved him. Dany thinks about how he’s loved Carlos all his life - wonders if Carlos truly loved him back. It felt real, at least to him, the way that Carlos had looked at him, how Carlos had moaned out his name as they made love, how Carlos’s lips brushed around those three words.   
  
_But he’s not here_ . Dany’s brain mutters under his breath. His eyes ghost over the empty road, back into the apartment where the tree sits twinkling. _He never loved you. He’s left you for good, realised that you’re not worth it._

  
“Stop!” Dany calls out to fill in his screaming brain, his hands moving to fist into his hair, the tears falling down his cheeks. “He loves me, I know he does!”   
  
_It’s all a lie._ _  
_ _  
_ “He wouldn’t! He loves me, he told me so!” Dany find himself sobbing, falling apart - the tears taste salty against his tongue as he feels himself unravelling. “He _loves_ me,”   
  
_Why would he love someone so pathetic like you?_ _  
_ _  
_ _“_ I don’t know why...but...but he does,” Dany whispers, panting for breath. It hurts, his chest heaving up and down as he fights to take in deep breaths of sharp, cold air. “He loves me,”   
  
_Then where is he? Where is he, Daniil? Why isn’t he here with us?_ _  
_ _  
_ “...I...I don’t know,” Dany screams out, trying to ignore the blinking lights on the Christmas tree, trying to pull the thoughts away.   
  
He scrunches his eyes up, tries to stop the tears, tries to stop the pain because the voices are right. Carlos isn’t here. Carlos’s hands aren’t wrapped around his own, his voice whispering into his ear. Carlos isn’t by Dany’s side, like he promised. It finally hits him - he’s all alone. He’s all alone at Christmas. The scream that pushes from his lips shatters along with the promises that Carlos made and the tears come and everything hurts. The lights on the tree become a blur, everything becomes a blur as the sobs overwhelm him. He tries to take in a breath of air, but it doesn’t seem to do anything. His vision blurs as he fights to take in air - before a warm pair of arms wrap around him.   
  
“Danya,” A familiar voice calls out through the pain and Dany takes in a deep breath to see dark brown eyes staring back at him - Carlos is sitting in front of him, wearing a look of concern on his face, his hands still clutching Dany’s face. He’s covered in snow and he looks exhausted - the dark smudges under his eyes highlight how tired he’s been. “I’m here,” He says softly.   
  
Dany wants to cry. _He’s here. He came._   
  
“Of course I’m here, I don’t want to be anywhere else,” Carlos mutters and Dany realises that he said the words aloud, his ragged breathing still cutting through the silence. “I don’t want to be anywhere but with you,”   
  
Dany sobs, his fingers finding Carlos’s coat - the cold icicles melt and leave damp spots on Dany’s fingertips as he bites back another cry from his lips. “I- Chili, I thought you weren’t coming-”   
  
“I’m here,” Carlos says softly, brushing back Dany’s hair from his face. “I’m here, sorry, traffic was insane-”   
  
“I thought you didn’t care-” Dany sobs out, tears pricking in the corner of his eyes. “I thought-”   
  
“Never,” Carlos cuts in, his eyes are bright and beautiful, shimmering against the twinkling lights of the tree. “I’ve always cared about you, I always have and I always will,” He pauses, his thumb swiping over Dany’s cheek. “And I know right now, you don’t believe me but it’s true-”   
  
“I’m sorry,” Dany mutters, the tears still falling down his cheeks. “I’m sorry, I just-”   
  
“I love you,” Carlos says quietly, his eyes gazing into Dany’s hazel-green ones, his hands smoothing over the Russian’s warm cheeks. “I love you so much-”   
  
Dany closes his eyes, tries to pretend that the doubt still isn’t there in the back of his mind. He focuses on Carlos’s breath, on his chest rising and falling and tries to push his own breathing into the same rhythm. His fingers still cling to Carlos’s coat, the soft curls pressing against his other hand as he rubs his fingers through the nape of Carlos’s neck. Carlos is here, right beside him - he reassures himself. He’s here. He’s here to stay. The doubts seem to glow for a moment before they disappear, fade away with Carlos’s touch. Brown eyes gaze into his face, fingers brush over skin that it’s mapped hundreds of times before. Carlos is here he tells himself, the lights still twinkling, the Spaniard’s fingers are still cool against his skin, but he’s here.   
  
Their lips meet together. They’re cold and chapped, but none of that matter to Dany because Carlos is with him, like he promised. The tears seem to melt away with the rest of the snowflakes and with Dany’s insecurities, giving way to warmth and love as he folds himself into the kiss. Carlos is here. He’s home .   
  



	4. through the ages (brocedes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It starts with a smile, it ends with a forced one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is for the wonderful Caroline, who has stuck with me through everything for which I am grateful for. Enjoy :)

It all starts with a smile. It’s how most friendships form - a smile and names brushing over lips. This one begins in the garage, the smell of oil drifting through the air, the sound of karts revving through the silence and it ends in silence, in the silence of the twinkling lights on Christmas Eve. Lewis has always loved Nico, in his own way - he doesn’t recall a time when he’s not looked into the younger man’s eyes and felt his chest melt. He remembers the times when they were younger, when they both had bad hair, bad teeth, bad taste in clothing. Those were the simpler times - when it was just the two of them against the world - it’s all changed now. Gone are those days replaced with something sharper, something that he doesn’t seem to recognise. People got in the way, feelings got in the way - they’re nothing like they used to be and that hurts sometimes. Lewis oftens looks at the way they were, at who they used to be - wonders if they fit into the same moulds as before. 

It all began in Italy. It was warm and humid, the sweat was clinging to the back of Lewis’s neck as he gazed over the sandy track that his kart would be racing on. He remembers the smell of oil hanging in the air, he remembers watching Nico tinkering around in his own kart - his blonde hair slicked back from his face, his overalls looped around his waist. He looks beautiful as always - and Lewis feels his heart slam against his chest at the sight of his best friend. He swipes away the sweat, feels the clear liquid seep down his chest as the Italian sun beats down on him. Looking back, it was all simple, all innocent then - the way Nico kissed him behind the back of the tyre wall. 

“Nico, we shouldn’t-”

“Why not? Nobody will care,” Nico says, smirking. Lewis can still remember that smirk even now. People always assumed that Lewis was the one getting Nico into all sorts of trouble - but Nico was a Rosberg, he was used to sneaking away from his father. Lewis bites his lip, Nico’s arms are still looped around his waist. The blonde leans in closer, his eyes dancing as his tongue swipes over his lips. “Live a little, Lewis,”

Lewis knows that they could get caught, knows that he should heed his father’s warnings but there’s something about Nico, there’s something that he can’t seem to resist. Nico leans in and their lips connect together. The worry melts away from him as Nico’s taste spills over his lips - salty sweat, motor oil and the trace of the fruit juice he had been drinking earlier. He’s never kissed anyone like Nico - Nico who fists his hand into his hair, tugs him closer, draws a shaky breath from him. He wishes that they could stay like that - Nico’s lips against his own, both of their bodies tangled together against the tyre wall. 

But they can’t. The years melted away and so did their affection, so did the old feelings of warmth and love. Reality pushed itself into the driving seat. Formula One takes over, as it’s often to do - and their loves crumbles under the pressure. Lewis tells himself that it’s because they were scared, that they were never destined to work out as he watches Nico across the other end of the paddock. He looks the same as he always does. But Lewis knows that they’re different people now - they’ve grown up since their karting days. He knows that Nico isn’t the same boy he was then - he seems to have matured from the young man who would blow Lewis behind the tyre wall with sparkling eyes. He seems different and Lewis hates it, he hates not knowing every single detail about Nico, about what’s going on in his mind. However, the pressure soon presses down on everyone and any thoughts of Nico are gone from Lewis’s mind as he focuses only on driving, on points and on the championship. But after the pressure ends and the championship slips from his fingers, he wonders if he made a mistake. He thinks about Nico that night between his tears. He cries for everything that could have been - for Nico and him, for the championship that should have been his. 

But he doesn’t have time to linger. There’s another championship on the line, and another year rolls in. Nico’s hair gets shorter, his ribs more visible through his thin t-shirt - Lewis barely recognises him anymore. He’s replaced by someone with sharp lines, sharp eyes, sharp tongue and Lewis isn’t sure he likes him. But he tries to ignore what Nico has become, tries to ignore what he himself is becoming. He looks in the mirror at himself, at his shifting muscles, at the ink spreading over his skin - impure, not perfect - and that’s enough for now. They stay apart, as they were supposed to until a few years later when Lewis meets green eyes across the room once more. 

“I’ve missed you,” Nico whispers and Lewis knows he should push the blonde away. But he doesn’t. They push together again, they fall against each other like the last few years never happened. The spark between them seems to flare once more and neither of them can ignore that pull between them. Their lips meet again, their eyes locked on one another, whispered promises in the back of the motorhome, hands fumbling at wrinkled overalls. It all seems like a dirty secret to Lewis as Nico presses himself inside him, as his hand folds over Lewis’s bicep and he digs deeper. The wedding ring he has on seems to shine in the dim light - it’s almost a reminder - a reminder of the other side of Nico, the side that Lewis will never possess. He doesn’t want to - he has the rough, animalistic side of Nico, the side that cannot be tamed, the side that is like a flame. 

“What’s wrong?” Nico mutters, his voice thick with desire, eyes roving over Lewis. 

“Nothing,” Lewis whispers back. He’s overthinking again - he’s thinking about what could have been and what will never be. 

They fracture after that - as Lewis expected they would, after Nico lifts the silverware for the first time. Lewis knew they wouldn’t be forever, not in the way he wanted. He tries to hold it together as he slinks off to the States with his tail between his legs and the trophy in someone else’s cabinet this time - he tries to focus on Christmas, on spending time away from the car and the expectations and away from Nico. But it’s difficult to shift the spectre of Nico from around him - he buys all his nieces and nephews Christmas presents, buys his mum another new car and his dad another holiday home in Grenada for good measure, treats himself to a new tattoo curling up his leg - a reminder of the new Lewis, the Lewis that rises from the ashes. He’s tracing over the lines of the scabbing tattoo when there’s a knock at the door. Raising an eyebrow, he pads over to the door and opens it carefully, not expecting any visitors. However, he almost closes the door when he sees the person on the other side. 

“Wait,” Nico whispers, his eyes bright. “Wait a second,”

“What are you doing here? You should be with your family, Nico,” Lewis mutters, trying not to gaze over Nico. It’s not like the cliches in the movies - there’s no snow on Nico’s shoulders, there’s no snow swirling around their feet - but none of that matters to Lewis right now. Nico is on his doorstep, wrapped up in a thick dark green wool scarf that sets off his eyes. 

“I needed to see you,” Nico says, his eyes locked on Lewis. 

“Why?” Lewis asks, raising an eyebrow. “You should be in Monaco-”

“You’re right,” Nico says softly. “But I’m here,”

Silence stretches out between them. Lewis worries his lip, shivering slightly in the cold. The pair of them stand in the doorway - both grown men, both equals - but not together, not happy as they expected to be all those years ago. 

“What happened to us?” Nico asks softly but Lewis has no answer. 

He stares into the green eyes of the man he loved, of the man he still loves - and wonders how they got to this moment, how they became this. The silence closes over them as they stare into each other’s eyes, waiting for something to happen. Lewis knows that things could have been different - but they aren’t. The realisation hits him. They could have been lovers meeting once more on Christmas Eve, folding into a kiss, but they’re not. They’re just two men who happen to race cars, they’re two people who used to be something. 

It starts with a smile, it ends with a smile, forced though it may be.


	5. christmas angel (alex/pierre)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But his posture isn’t what takes Alex’s breath away. Two golden wings stretch out of the young boy’s back, shining in the dim light and protecting the boy from the worse of the snow - they’re beautiful, the most beautiful thing Alex has ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the wonderful and beautiful Alex. This is my favourite fic so far. I hope you enjoy it :)

 

Alex was engrossed in humming ‘Driving Home for Christmas’ at the top of his lungs when he hears it. There’s a heavy bump and his Aston jolts slightly at the sensation - narrowing his eyes, he glances at his mirrors, spotting something lying in the road. Thankfully, the roads are abandoned at this time - everyone has gone home early on Christmas Eve, hoping to spend a few extra hours with their family, so Alex is about to stop his car at the side of the road quickly. Peeling himself out of the warmth of his Aston, he gingerly makes his way through the thick snow that’s piled up on the road towards the crumpled figure.    
  
“Are you okay?” He calls out into the swirling snow at the shadowed figure, moving closer and closer. The dim light of the streetlamp above suddenly bursts through the snow, illuminating the figure and Alex feels a gasp brush from his lips. The shadow is a young man, thick dark hair and pale skin, he’s hunched over slightly as though he’s panting for air, fighting to pull breathes into his body. But his posture isn’t what takes Alex’s breath away. Two golden wings stretch out of the young boy’s back, shining in the dim light and protecting the boy from the worse of the snow - they’re beautiful, the most beautiful thing Alex has ever seen -    
  
The boy senses Alex’s movements nearby and flinches, his wings curving in on their master - the beautiful golden flecked feathers shimmer in the dim light and Alex feels his mouth drop open as he moves closer, holding his hands out in surrender.    
  
“Hey, I’m not going to harm you-” He says softly, as though to coerce the creature out of hiding. “It’s okay,” He says, dropping to his knees. He can see the different colours woven into the wings, into each feather. However, upon closer inspection, Alex spots a smear of dark blood in the crook of one of the boy’s golden wings and realises that one of his wings is slightly bent more than usual.    
  
“It’s okay,” He murmurs again, hoping his voice is soft enough.    
  
The boy looks up through his curtain of dark brown eyes, his bright blue eyes fixing on Alex. “W-why would you help me?” He says quietly through cracked lips.    
  
“Because it’s Christmas,” Alex says, the tones of his radio still filtering through the night.    
  
The boy’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Christmas?”   
  
“And because you’re hurt,” Alex cuts in, his eyes still roving over the dark blood smearing over the boy’s wing.    
  
“Why should I trust you?” The boy whimpers out. “All your kind do is hurt-”   
  
“You don’t have to trust me,” Alex says softly. “I just want to help you if I can,” He says, holding his hand out. The boy surveys it for a moment, bright blue eyes almost calculating if it’s worth it, if Alex truly means what he says before thin, pale fingers wind around Alex’s hand. Alex swears he feels a warmth dance through his skin as the boy’s hand folds around his own.    
  
There’s silence between the pair as Alex slowly makes his way back to his apartment through the heavy snowfall. He glances to the side a few times, glances over the boy’s wings folded up against his back, one still at a jaunty angle and the boy’s face pressing against the window, bright blue eyes hidden by dark, thick eyelashes. He looks peaceful, Alex thinks as he continues to drive - he thinks about the boy sitting beside him, thinks about why he’s there, what he truly is. It isn’t long before he’s pulling up outside his house. He doesn’t want to disturb the winged boy at the side of him - but he has to. He gently shakes at the boy’s shoulder.    
  
“Hey, wake up,” He mutters softly, only for the boy to flinch at his touch, his wings ruffling as though they have a mind of their own.    
  
The boy’s eyes flutter open and Alex is met with the beautiful bright blue once more. The boy remains silent as he follows Alex inside - he says nothing as he gazes at the brightly coloured lights on the tree, at the angel stuck precariously on the top - placed there by Stoffel. Alex allows the winged boy to fold himself onto the couch as he moves into the bathroom to collect towels and warm water. The boy’s eyes lock on him as he reenters the room slowly, carrying the towels over his shoulder.    
  
“I need to look at your wounds,” Alex says, his brown eyes locking with the blue ones of the boy. The boy looks reluctant, but slowly lowers his wing. Alex maintains eye contact as he slowly lifts a slightly damp towel towards the bloodied crease of the boy’s wing. He works as slowly and as gently as he can - the boy flinching every so often with pain, his eyes moving over Alex’s lounge before ghosting back to him.    
  
“I don’t even know your name,” Alex says as he dabs away the drying blood - the wound seems to be healing itself. “Is it Gabriel or?”   
  
“My true name cannot be pronounced in the human tongue-” The boy says quietly, wincing as Alex’s hand pushes against his wound. “But I rather like one of the ways you say it,”   
  
“And what’s that?”   
  
“Pierre,” The boys says with a smile.

  
“Pierre? I was expecting something like Gabriel or Uriel or-”   
  
“Those are my big brothers,” Pierre says, shaking his head. “That’s kind of why I’m here....they thought it would be funny to throw me out of heaven just before Father’s favourite day-”   
  
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Alex says, lifting the cloth away. “Your wings seem to be healing though-”   
  
“I don’t even know your name,” Pierre says, shifting his wings ever so slightly, a small wince rippling through him at the sensation.    
  
“Alex,”    
  
“ _ Alex _ ,” Pierre repeats. “Defender of man, sounds very apt,”   
  
“Thanks,” Alex says, blush staining his cheeks as his hand moves to slide through the feathers - they’re softer than he imagined. Pierre pauses, his eyes locking on Alex - it’s as though the winged boy’s gaze cuts straight through him. “Can’t believe there’s an angel in my apartment, an angel with actual wings, on Christmas no less,”   
  
Pierre’s wings stiffen as Alex probes the area, probes over the slight ruffled area. “Feels like a sprain, no flying for a few days,” He says, looking down into the beautiful blue eyes.    
  
“I guess I fell to Earth harder than I imagined,” Pierre says, smiling - Alex notices the tiny gap between his two front teeth and feels his heart jump at the sight. He manages to get the rest of the blood off Pierre’s feathers, slowly watching the skin knit itself back together, healing itself before his very eyes. Alex notices the angel’s eyes starting to fall shut before they snap back open again, as though he’s catching himself from sleeping.   
  
“Hey, it’s okay,”  Alex says, hoping to reassure the angel. “It’s okay if you want to rest,” He begins to tidy away the towels and the water as quietly as he can.    
  
His eyes keep moving over to the couch where Pierre lays, bundled up - his wings move to pull around him, as though there were a fluffy golden blanket, almost protecting their owner from harm. Alex finds he can’t take his eyes off the sight before him - it doesn’t look real in the dim light of his flat. An angel slumbering on his couch. He finds himself falling back to his knees besides Pierre, watching his chest slowly rise and fall again. His hand slowly moves out to catch the feathers again - they’re so soft, softer than he ever imagined and Pierre seems to purr at the sensation as Alex’s hands card through the soft downy feathers. Alex marvels at the sight before him - of the beautiful boy with the golden wings spread out around him, shining in the dim light.    
  
“You’re safe here,” Alex continues, stroking over the wings, a small smile ghosting over his face as he stops the yawn leaving his mouth with a cupped hand.    
  
His fingers continue to move through the soft feathers. His knees ache but none of that matters in that moment as his hands map over each feather, careful of the ones that were joustled by Pierre’s fall. “You’re safe with me,” He mutters, his eyelids suddenly growing heavier than lead. He remembers soft feathers, fingers still carding as he’s guided into sleep, his head falling half against the couch, half against Pierre’s wing.    
  
He awakens on Christmas morning with a stiff neck, to find himself settled on the couch. There’s a twinge in his back but he ignores it, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he gazes around his flat. Everything is as he left it last night - the tree is still in the corner with the lights blinking. Alex rubs over his face and wonders if he just imagined it all, if he imagined Pierre - the beautiful boy with the golden wings. However, just as the doubt creeps in, his fingers fold around something clinging to his shirt. It’s a golden feather, a golden feather which seems to glow under the light in Alex’s fingers.    
  
“I won’t forget you either,” Alex announces to the room as he twirls the feather between his fingers, a fond smile on his face. 


	6. secret santa (mitch/alex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex Lynn. 
> 
> “Is there a problem?” Ollie says, wiggling his eyebrows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the wonderful Anna, who also is celebrating her birthday. Hope you enjoy this gorgeous :)

Mitch pulls a strip of paper out of the red velvet bag held out by a grinning Ollie Rowland - and groans internally when he reads the name typed up on it, the name of a man who he has been in love with for as long as he can remember.    
_   
_ __ Alex Lynn.    
  
“Is there a problem?” Ollie says, wiggling his eyebrows. He still has the widest grin on his face, making Mitch immediately suspicious and he wonders if he did this on purpose. He stares back at the paper once more, willing the name to disappear, wondering if he can persuade Pierre or Richie to swap papers with him - Pierre, he knows, in particular, is gifted at finding out exactly what his secret Santa needs and would seek out whatever forty year old bourbon that Alex was craving. He curses himself under his breath, asks why he even signed up in the first place as he tucks the scrap of paper into his pocket.    
  
He’s sitting in his garage, fiddling with his phone, fingers sliding over various items on Amazon - wondering if Alex would enjoy a new coffee maker or some hardback copy of one of his favourite books - but nothing seems right. Nothing seems worthy of Alex. He curses under his breath again and contemplates going over to the Prema garage to go and bother Pierre into switching names with him.    
  
“Still trying to find a present for him?” Sean’s voice pipes up and Mitch bristles at the sight of his best friend’s tall form folded into the chair next to him, scrolling through his own phone, presumably texting Antonio stupid soppy love-filled messages or something else. Mitch hates them sometimes, they seem to have such an easy relationship - something that’s blossomed from when they were teenagers. They spend all their time together, holding hands, Antonio in Sean’s lap, Sean’s hand protectively on the Italian’s thin waist. Mitch wants a love like theirs. But he knows he won’t. He’s not like that, he’s not something that he could sustain.    
  
He trawls through Amazon for anything - nothing catches his eye - he knows that Alex has enough cufflinks to last him a lifetime, that his parents buy him nothing but new clothes. Nothing seems special enough for him - he even looks up suits in Savile Row before he reasons that Alex probably has several in his wardrobe. Alex doesn’t eat chocolate due to the new diet he’s on - wanting to lose more weight for his new employers. Mitch sighs heavily, watches Sean wrap up Antonio’s present - some new snapback and a pair of trainers that he’d been pining for for months - and wonders if he’ll ever find anything for Alex. He scrawls through his contacts, mentally  marking off person after person until he reaches a particular name.    
  
Pierre answers the phone within the first three rings with a muffled disposition. He sounds like he’s in the middle of something - and Mitch feels bad for a moment, but Pierre knows Alex better than anyone. Mitch used to be jealous of the Frenchman when he used to spend all of his time with Alex, when the Brit’s touch would linger on his shoulder for a few minutes. Mitch tried to hide his jealousy, tried to bury the knot that pushed down on his stomach as he watched them last year, as he watched Alex’s smile. But Pierre had known from the beginning, he had seen Mitch’s dark eyes falling on the older Brit and he’d known.   
  
“Is this about Alex’s Secret Santa present?” Pierre asks with a sense of annoyance tinging his voice.    
  
“How did you know that?” Mitch cuts in immediately, blush dancing over his cheeks.    
  
“Because you obviously got him and you have no idea what to get him and since I’m his best friend, you thought you would ask me,”   
  
“You got me,” Mitch sighs, exasperatedly. “I have no idea what to get him,”   
  
“You mean you have no idea what to get him without telling that that you’re in love with him? That’s also obvious,” Pierre says, his voice still muffled by the covers. “Look, just get him some aftershave or something or some slippers. You know what Alex is like,” A gasp brushes from his lips and Mitch narrows his eyes as he hears the suspicious sound of someone kissing Pierre’s neck.   
  
“I’m not buying him some slippers,” Mitch says, sighing.    
  
“Oh I’m sure he’d love them,” Pierre says, his voice slightly breathless. “Anyway, I need to go-”   
  
“Why?” Another wet noise can be heard through the phone. “You have company?”   
  
“Fuck, yeah, you called up when I was in the middle of something-” Pierre stutters out as another familiar voice, one which Mitch heard a lot of last year suddenly pipes up.    
  
“P, get off the phone,” The Belgian accent is deep but unmistakeable.    
  
“Is that Stoffel-” Mitch asks, his nose wrinkling as he tries to picture the pair wrapped up in Pierre’s bed together, tries to imagine Pierre curled up on Stoffel’s chest, the Belgian pressing his lips against Pierre’s neck.    
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pierre says a little too quickly before the call ends and Mitch frowns at the dial tone blaring in his ear. He didn’t see that coming - Stoffel and Pierre - he never saw them as a likely couple. However, the more the thoughts weigh down on him, the lonelier he feels and the more he thinks about Alex. He finds himself checking through Amazon one last time, wondering if he should just buy Alex some slippers like Pierre had said. A sigh brushes past his lips as he pushes a hand through his hair, he’s so fucked. He’s so fucked.    
It’s not until a few days later, when he’s pulling out the expensive perfume that he’s bought for his mother that he finds something that he hasn’t seen in a while. The box looks the same as it always does - he pulls it down from the shelf of his wardrobe, the perfume forgotten. The lid immediately comes off as he sits down on the floor, pulling out the photographs of his years in GP2 - the photos of himself and Artem looking youthful, a photo of him and Alex, Alex’s small smile and his arm around Mitch’s shoulder. He feels the smile brush over his lips at the sight of them - he was in love with Alex even then. He remembers the first moment he met the tall Brit, he had a warm coffee in his hand and had slammed into Alex. He remembers arms brushing around him, looking up into chocolate brown eyes, lip caught between his teeth as he had spotted the brown liquid splattered over the white Nomex of the muscular chest.    
  
“Sorry,” Mitch had said, feeling like an idiot - as he’d gazed into beautiful brown eyes. “Here,” He says, patting at his pockets for a tissue, before he realises he’s in his racesuit. Pulling out one of his driving gloves, he thrusts it at the tall, dark and handsome stranger. “Here, take this,”   
  
The stranger just raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “How is your driving glove going to get the coffee stains out of my fireproofs?”   
  
“You’re hot enough I’m sure they’ll dry in no time,” Mitch had said, grinning widely as he pressed the glove into the stranger’s hands, dashing off to the Russian Time garage.   
  
Mitch looks down at the glove in his hand - it used to be a bright white, but it’s dirty and there’s an oil mark in it, the slightest spill of coffee. It’s twin was given to the stranger - the stranger who soon introduced himself as Alex Lynn, a man who would become one of Mitch’s best friends. And he wonders. He wonders what happened to the other glove, he wonders why he kept the other for so long.    
  
He thinks he knows the answer.    
  
Mitch is nervous a few weeks later when Ollie manages to get everyone together for their annual Christmas party, his eyes shining as he directs everyone to place their gifts for Secret Santa into his special magical sack. His eyebrows waggle as Mitch drops his gift into the sack and he shuffles over to the bar, eager to get a few drinks in before anything else happens. He spots Sean across the room, his arm around an already half-drunken Antonio, his hair falling out of the product, head on his shoulder. He downs half of his drink at the bar before he goes over to his teammate and his boyfriend, smile plastered on his face.    
  
“I see you finally got him a present,” Sean says, grinning and completely disregarding the fact that Antonio’s lips are attached to his neck. “Did you go with cufflinks or slippers?”   
  
“You’ll see,” Mitch says, taking another sip of his drink as he spots Alex entering the room, deep in conversation with Pierre. He looks good - he always does - but the white shirt he’s wearing is tighter and seems to glow against his skin, his hair perfectly tousled as always. Pierre is wearing some hipster get-up, some paisley shirt and the tightest trousers in existence - Mitch recalls the phone call, imagines Stoffel brushing kisses over the Frenchman’s lips and he feels the blush dancing over his cheeks once more. To Mitch’s horror, after Alex and Pierre have collected drinks from the bar, Antonio yells across their names out, waving frantically.    
  
“Hey,” Alex says, with a small smile as Pierre winks at Mitch, his eyes moving to ghost over Antonio, still snuggling against Sean.    
  
Mitch smiles back at the Brit, takes another drink and wills for this night to be over.  He doesn’t think he can stop himself staring at Alex all night. He looks beautiful in the dim light of the club. Alex catches Mitch watching him and smiles, raising his drink slightly. Mitch sighs under his breath. He’s so screwed. He watches Alex’s hand curve over Pierre’s shoulder, wonder if they’ve ever - wonders if Pierre is still with Stoffel.    
  
A few hours and several drinks later, Oliver begins to hand out the Secret Santa presents to everyone - he’s very drunk and wearing a sparkly Santa hat that he acquired from someone - he waggles his eyebrows as he passes Mitch his own present. However, Mitch’s attention is on Alex sitting across the table from him, holding onto the present that Mitch had lovingly wrapped a few days ago. They all begin to tear into their presents with eagerness but Mitch keeps his eyes trained on Alex as he unwraps the layers of shiny paper.    
  
“Who got you a tatty old glove?” Norman Nato, who is at the side of Alex, announces, eyebrow furrowing at the white and black racing glove in the Brit’s hand. “I think you’ve been played mate,” He laughs. But Alex doesn’t laugh. His eyes move to meet Mitch’s across the table. Mitch freezes, present still in his hands, as he pushes away from the table. He can’t stay here - it was a stupid decision, he thinks, as he curses himself. He finds his way out to the balcony, takes in pulls of air thinking about how stupid he was. He was stupid to give Alex something like that, stupid to think that Alex probably even thought of him in that way-   
  
“Mitch,” A familiar accent cuts through his heavy, harsh breathing and he freezes. “Mitch,”   
  
“Just leave me alone, I don’t know what I was thinking-” Mitch begins, shaking his head.    
  
“Mitch, look at me,”   
  
Mitch doesn’t.    
  
“If you’re not going to look at me, could you at least open your present?” Alex pleads and Mitch knows he could never say no to him. He turns over the present in his hands and slowly begins to unwrap the layers of paper, revealing the gift inside. Mitch feels the breath leave his body as a familiar object falls into his hand - the racing glove that he gave Alex all those years ago. It’s still as muddy as ever, the white still plagued with coffee stains.    
  
“You…you-” Mitch begins, finding it hard to speak.    
  
“I kept it all these years,” Alex says softly. “All this time...waiting to give it back to you, I guess. I...I’ve liked you for a long time and I-” He doesn’t get to finish as Mitch turns around, throwing himself at the taller man. Mitch melts against Alex’s touch, their lips meeting together for the first time. Mitch groans at the sensation, his hand still fisted around the glove, the glove that started everything. Alex smiles gently, wrapping his arms around Mitch to pull him closer, their lips ghosting over each other, meeting again and again.    
  
“Told you I’d get them together,” Ollie announces from inside - where he, Pierre and Sean are watching the pair kiss against the railings.    
  
“Hey, I’m taking a bit of credit,” Pierre cuts in, smiling. “I’m just glad they stopped being idiots-”   
  
Alex and Mitch continue to kiss, unaware of the conversation inside - nothing else matters to them in that moment apart from each other.    



	7. chicken soup (carlos/dany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany tries to make Carlos feel better the only way he knows how - with the recipe for his mother's homemade chicken soup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the wonderful Fanni, I hope you enjoy this :)

Dany smiles, sleep still clinging to his eyelashes as he moves closer to his boyfriend - his hands sliding around his thin waist, fingers brushing over the hair curling over his belly button. His nose pushes up against the soft curls at the nape of his boyfriend’s hair, taking in the scent of his shampoo. It’s something fancy, some sort of fruit that Dany is unable to pronounce but it’s a smell that he’s always associated with the man in his arms. Carlos groans as Dany’s nose nuzzles into his hair, noting that it’s strangely sweatier than usual. He puts it down to the fact that Carlos seems to sleep with ten thousand blankets on their bed when they’re both in Russia - he seems to feel the cold a lot more than his boyfriend. But then Carlos suddenly stiffens, his body going stiff against Dany’s hands - before he erupts into a series of dry coughs. Dany’s brow furrows as Carlos hacks away into his hands, his chest rattling as he fights to pull in air.    
  
“Chili?” Dany mutters, hoping that it’s just a tickle in his throat, but Carlos continues to cough noisily, his thin chest rising and falling quickly. The coughs seem to wrack his entire body and it’s only then that Dany spots the sweat covering the nape of Carlos’s neck, sticking his dark hair to the tanned skin.    
  
“Chili?” Dany presses again but Carlos is still wracked by coughs - they’re dry and make Dany just ache listening to them. He wants nothing more than to push Carlos’s hair back, to kiss him, to take away the pain. Carlos groans out - finally a break in his coughing - his head flopping back against the pillows. “Chili?” Dany asks again, softly as he sits up in the bed - his hand immediately moves to swipe over Carlos’s sweaty face. He recoils, wincing. Carlos is burning up - his face is covered with a thin sheen of sweat. He says nothing, another groan brushing from his lips as he tries to bury himself into his pillow. Dany worries his lip at the sight of his boyfriend, of his shirt still clinging to him, dark with sweat.    
  
“I don’t feel good,” Carlos mutters out, pushing a hand through his hair, scrunching his eyes closed. Dany wants nothing more than to kiss the pain away from his boyfriend’s face, kiss the fever from Carlos’s cheeks - the bright red looks strange against his tanned skin. It looks like it’s not supposed to be there. Dany places his hand back against Carlos’s skin, pulling on his lip as he feels the heat burning through his skin. Carlos groans at the touch, his sweaty skin brushing over Dany’s fingertips. Carlos seemed okay last night, but there’s a bug going around - Mitch has been sneezing into Alex’s shoulder for the past week - and Carlos is the type who battles through something as trivial as a cold. Dany thinks back to all the times that Carlos bared all weathers to go for his early morning runs - one morning, in particular springs to mind, a few days ago when Carlos came back through the door with his hair plastered to his forehead, thin hoodie soaked with chilling winter rain. It was a nice image for Dany to behold, in that the outline of Carlos’s abs were visible through the soaked material. But now, gazing at his boyfriend, his face covered in sweat, he wonders if it were worth it.    
  
Carlos groans again and Dany pulls himself reluctantly away as he surges forward and a hacknig cough erupts from his lips, his thin shoulders shaking from the exertion. Dany thinks about all the times that he used to get sick, thinks about what his mother used to do - he conjures up images of himself propped up in bed with a bowl of his mother’s chicken soup. He thinks about the creamy thick liquid, about how he always made him feel better as his gaze moves back over to Carlos, still twisted amongst the sheets of his bed with his teeth caught between his lips, sweat pouring from every inch of skin. He knows what he needs to do.    
  
In the end, it’s easy to procure the recipe for his mother’s chicken soup - after a good forty minutes of his mother’s harsh words that he needs to call more often and that he doesn’t look like he’s eating - all soothed away in his gentle Russian. It’s harder to actually make the soup. He’s meticulous in his note-taking, making sure to ask his mother for direct instructions, but it’s harder than it looks, he decides as he melts some butter into the pan, ready to saute the vegetables which have been sliced up already. The chicken is cooking away in the oven as he begins to prepare the chicken stock. He had poked his head back into their darkened bedroom but Carlos was laid on his stomach, drooling into his pillow, cheeks still red with fever.  The butter is oozing on the surface of the pan as Dany thinks about Carlos, about how painful his cough sounds. He hates to see his boyfriend in pain at any cost - but to see his shoulders shaking with the force of his coughs is hard for him to see. He slowly pours the vegetables in and leaves them to soften as he checks on the chicken for a moment. A series of coughs from the bedroom pull him away from the vegetables. He goes back into their bedroom only to see Carlos sitting upright in bed, cheeks still pink with fever, bent over heaving for breath. 

 

“Chili, you need to stay in bed-” Dany says softly as he takes in the covers pushed back away from Carlos’s sweaty form.

 

“T-too hot-” Carlos slowly pushes out, closing his eyes as he leans back against the pillow once more. Dany’s brow furrows in worry as he slowly brushes a hand to push his boyfriend’s sweaty hair back. 

 

“Make me feel better D-Dany-” Carlos begins but he's cut off by another hacking cough as Carlos pitches forward, slumping against the Russian with a pained moan. Dany can do nothing except carefully stroke Carlos’s back - his fingers moving slowly in strokes over the Spaniard. Carlos seems to melt against him, his chest wracked by cough after cough which makes his body shake against Dany’s with some force.     
  
“Shhh,” Dany strokes Carlos’s hair back again and again, his fingers tangled in the sweaty strands - glassy brown eyes gazing up at him. Dany feels the smile ghost over his face as he takes in the sight before him. Despite the glazed look in his eyes and the sheen of sweat, he remembers why he fell in love with the man before him in the first place. He remembers the first moment that he realised he’d fallen in love with those beautiful eyes, with that gorgeous smile. He remembers the crinkles in the corners of Carlos’s eyes when he smiled, the tinkling laugh vibrating through the air.    
  
“What?” Carlos croaks out, another cough shaking his chest.    
  
“Nothing, just remembering why I fell in love with you,”   
  
“Stop,” Carlos splutters out weakly, his hand weakly slapping against Dany’s chest. “Not when I’m sick and disgusting,”   
  
“You’re still beautiful to me,” Dany mutters, gazing over Carlos. “When you’re sick and full of snot and when you’re old and wrinkly,”   
  
Carlos’s brow furrows. “Even when I’m grey and old?”   
  
“Of course,” Dany says softly, stroking back Carlos’s hair as he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to the sweaty forehead. Carlos wrinkles his nose, but accepts the kiss before he winces, his back arching up as his chest heaves with another cough. “I will always love you,” Dany whispers, his hand moving down to lock with Carlos’s. It always felt familiar - it always has, has always felt right.    
  
Carlos smiles but it’s immediately wiped away by his incessant coughing, pain spreading over his face for a moment before he slumps back against the pillows with a pained groan. Dany leans down and brushes another kiss to his forehead, wishing that he could take away his love’s pain. He tries to tug his hand away - only for Carlos to let out a little moan, almost as though he’s asking him to stay and he’s never been able to say no to the Spaniard. He stays with Carlos, lips brushing over sweaty skin, trying to sooth away each and every painful cough that wracks his boyfriend’s frame, until his eyes slowly begin to close, heavy with sleep.    
  
He wakes up what seems like a few minutes later, mind hazy and dizzy with sleep only to find that he’s slumped against a sweaty Carlos, snoring into his pillow. He still looks pale, skin still shimmering with sweat, but Dany is glad that he’s finally asleep and resting. However, he realises that it’s not Carlos that has pulled him out of his sleep, it’s the smoke detector cutting through the silence. Dany rips his hand away from Carlos’s as he stumbles into the kitchen, heart sinking at the pan before him. Plumes of black smoke billow out as Dany snatches the pan from the hob and immediately dumps it into the sink, frowning at the blackened vegetables sticking at the bottom of the metal, pushing open the window. He hits the stop button on the oven, cursing under his breath. The soup is ruined.   
  
“D-Dany?” He stiffens at Carlos’s voice. He whips around to see the Spaniard leaning heavily in the doorway, eye wide and chest heaving as he takes in the sight of his boyfriend. He’s still pale, the only spots of colour are on his cheeks, his dark curls still sticking to his forehead. Dany’s eyes widen and he drops the pan, moving to usher Carlos back to bed. But Carlos remains where he is, dark eyes taking in the pan.    
  
“Chili, go, the smoke isn’t good for you. I just wanted to make you something nice-”   
  
“Were you making something for me?” He asks, a cough wracking his frame.    
  
“I wanted to make you soup,” Dany says, blush dancing over his cheeks. “I just...it’s something that my mother used to make for me when I was ill and-” He’s suddenly silenced as Carlos pulls himself up onto his tiptoes, his lips connecting with Dany’s. Dany feels all the upset and anger at the vegetables being ruined fall away as Carlos’s lips push against his. Carlos has always felt right, he’s always felt like he’s supposed to be there. Dany almost forgets that his boyfriend is sick as they kiss in the kitchen doorway, before Carlos eventually tires and pulls away, doubling over as his body is wracked by another series of coughs, his body knocking against Dany’s.    
  
“I love you,” Dany murmurs, his hand stroking over Carlos’s back slowly, in circles. “Do you think you could stomach a takeaway instead?”   
  
Carlos can only laugh, another set of coughs erupt but Dany soothes them away, kissing his boyfriend’s curls, his fingers slowly mapping over Carlos’s back. He’ll always take care of him. Always, he thinks, as he slowly guides them back to the bedroom, the soup forgotten.    



	8. unwrapped (nsfw, dany/sergey)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergey has a little surprise for Dany, and well, Dany has to play with his present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for porn and corsets and well, general filth. For the wonderful May, for everything you do for me, thank you so much. Enjoy this my angel <3

Sergey worries his lip as he glances at the clock, his fingers still moving over the smooth bag sitting innocuously on the bed. He knows that he will be back at any moment, that he will bang through the door. He knows that he shouldn’t have bought it but the red lace looked so inviting, it had felt so soft against the pads of his fingers and it is Christmas after all. The lace looks innocuous enough and almost invites Sergey to pull it on. His eyes glance over to the closed door before he slowly pulls off his shirt. His pants quickly follow, his breath picking up as his fingers slide over the soft lace and silk of the underwear in front of him. He knows that it’s a risk, but it looks so soft and he knows that it will feel incredible on his skin. The panties go on first, they slide swiftly over his legs - they feel soft against him, tight against his cock - he pulls them into place, the lace pulls against his balls and he gasps lightly at the sensation. He knows that he shouldn’t like it, that the feeling of the lace and silk pulling over him shouldn’t turn him on, but it does - the bows sit on either side of his hips, his fingers brush over the layers of lace. He slowly picks up the sheer white stockings - it takes a few attempts for him to push the silky soft material over his hairy legs, but he marvels at himself, at the stockings clinging to his legs before he slowly pushes the hooks of the suspenders onto his underwear. Admiring his handiwork, he feels a smile brush over his lips at the sight of himself, of the stockings held up by the lacy underwear. His eyes turn to the corset still lying on the bed - and he carefully picks it up, holding it for a few seconds.    
  
He listens out for any noise before his fingers dance over the soft silk - it’s red, it matches the panties he thinks, that’s what he told himself when he wondered whether or not to buy it. It takes a while for him to pull it in, his hands pushing the hard bones against his ribs. He’s fiddling with the ribbons - huffing and puffing as he tries to get it as tight as he can, when suddenly he hears something - like a door slam shut. His eyes fall to the window, snow is slowly falling down outside the foggy windowpanes - it’s cold in Moscow, but none of that matters to Sergey.    
  
“Ser?” A familiar voice pipes up and Sergey has no time to move as Dany enters the room - his eyes immediately widening at the sight before him.    
  
“Danya-” Sergey breathes out, his voice shattering through the silence. “I-”   
  
Dany’s eyes rove over the red corset - it’s not as tight as Sergey wanted it, the ribbon sitting in the small of his back - before they move down to the matching lacy underwear, the suspenders still lying on the bed. “Sergey-”   
  
“Danya, I can explain-” Sergey says, his cheeks colouring bright red.   
  
“Turn around,” Dany cuts in and Sergey knows that voice - the voice he can’t say no to. He takes a deep breath as he turns around, feeling Dany’s fingers brush over the curve of his back, over the soft lace.    
  
“You haven’t got this nearly as tight as it could go,” He murmurs and Sergey bites down on his lip as Dany’s fingers slowly begin to undo the tightened knots of ribbon and the bones of the corset stop digging into his sides. He feels the corset loosen around his midsection for a moment. He inhales slowly, prepares for the bite of the material. Dany exhales as he pulls on the ribbon and Sergey lets out a groan. The bones of the corset push inwards and he moans at the exertion, at the material pulling his waist inwards. He can feel Dany’s knuckle skimming against the silk, can hear his grunt as he tightens the ribbon. Sergey can feel the bones push into his skin, can feel Dany’s body against the lace of his panties.    
  
“You look so beautiful,” Dany murmurs out, his voice like honey against Sergey’s ear. He pulls the ribbon tighter and Sergey lets out a gasp. He can feel the material bite in his hips, his cock swelling against the silk of the underwear he’s wearing. Dany’s breath ghosts against Sergey’s neck as he gives the ribbon one final tug.    
  
“You’re so sexy like this,” Dany mutters, his tone is one of interest, not disgust, Sergey notes as he slowly begins to tie up the knot that sits perfectly, following the curves of Sergey’s body. He glances at himself in the mirror, his eyes moving over the pull of his hips against the silky red

material. He looks good, he knows that. Dany seems to think so too, his hands wandering down to brush over Sergey’s silk-covered hips, moving down to map over his milky white thighs. Sergey lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding - Dany’s hands moving slowly over his skin, his cock swelling further against the silk of his underwear.    
  
“Danya, please-” Sergey begins but he’s silenced as Dany’s hand moves away for a moment, before they return - slowly sliding  his fingers over the stockings. His skin feels like it’s on fire, dizziness washes over him as he feels Dany’s fingers drop away. He stares at himself in the mirror as Dany’s lips brush over the skin of his neck, the other hand moving slowly over the soft silky material.    
  
“Dany-” Sergey repeats as Dany presses a kiss to his neck again and he’s guided over to the bed, pressed in between the soft sheets - he feels his heart beat faster, a groan tumbles from his lips at his body pulling against the tight material. Dany smirks at him as he positions himself on the bed - his face moving closer and closer inwards - as their lips move to push together. Sergey feels the groan leave his lips as Dany’s mouth folds over his own. They kiss slowly, Dany’s tongue running over the crease of his fellow Russian’s lips. Sergey feels himself grow harder as he opens his mouth and allows Dany’s tongue to brush over his own. His cock swells against the lacy underwear as he feels Dany’s hands move away from his body - he’s so focused on the older man’s lips against his own, he doesn’t feel the bite against his ankle at first.    
  
“Danya-” He rips his lips away and glances down, only to see one foot of a sheer white stocking dangling off his foot. “What are you doing?” He asks, his voice barely audible - but Dany doesn’t respond, he just continues pulling the stocking slowly over Sergey’s hairy leg, the smooth material of the stocking brushing over his skin.    
  
“You’re going to look beautiful when I unwrap you,” Dany purrs as he slowly pushes the stocking down. “Might keep the corset on as I fuck you,” He murmurs, his hands lingering over Sergey’s thighs - his fingers brushing over the sensitive freckled skin. Sergey melts into the older Russian’s touch, shivering against the cool air as the stocking is peeled away from his warm skin.    
  
“Danya, please,” Sergey finds himself unable to stop calling out - as Dany wastes no time discarding the stockings, his hands stroking back over his legs - his swollen cock pressing against the lace of his underwear as Dany’s hands move further and further up his legs. He bites back another groan as Dany’s hands press underneath his underwear, curl around his engorged, weeping cock. He bucks against the sensation and the corset bites into his skin, forces him to take shallower breaths. But Dany looks down at him in wonder, at his flushed skin and the corset biting into his pale skin - and smirks as he slowly sheds his own clothes. Sergey watches with bated breath as Dany’s pale but muscular form is revealed to him in the dim light - his cock is swollen, glistening pre-come on the tip. Sergey feels his mouth go dry at the sight.    
  
Dany smiles back before he leans back in, his fingers moving over Sergey’s skin slowly mapping every inch, committing it to memory. Sergey leans back against Dany’s warm fingers, feels his body relax against the sheets. Dany’s touch is firm but tender against his skin and his eyes close at the sensation of the older Russian caressing his body.    
  
“Ser-” Dany murmurs and it’s the only warning that Sergey appears to get as Dany’s fingers suddenly slide under the silk of his underwear and swirl around the curve of his ass. He exhales, his ribs pressing against the bones of the corset as Dany slides a finger into his ass, crooking his finger ever so slightly. Sergey groans at the sensation, arching his back as much as he can in the corset, Dany’s fingers underneath the silky lace of his underwear. “So good for me,” Dany purrs out, his other hand moving to push down the front of the panties and expose Sergey’s leaking cock. “So good for me, my little princess,”   
  
“Fuck-” Sergey gasps out at Dany’s words. Dany’s fingers tighten over his cock, another finger presses against him, stretching him out - he knows that Dany is an impatient fucker, knows that he won’t wait - his lips brushing against Sergey’s jawline as his other hand moves to brush underneath the tight corset. Sergey bites back a scream as Dany’s finger rubs over his nipple, teasing the nub between his thumb, Dany’s fingers slowly working him open. The warmth washes over him as the corset still bites into him - but he barely has time to register as Dany’s fingers are removed, his lubed cock - when did that happen - sliding between the lacy material and straight into Sergey’s ass. Sergey feels the groan push past his lips as Dany sinks the tip into him, his hand still tweaking at his nipple, his other steadying his hip. Dany’s cock is thick - it’s slow and steady and Sergey knows the older Russian is teasing him.    
  
“Don’t make me beg to be fucked,” He hisses out trying to shift onto Dany’s dick but he’s stopped by the Russian’s arm. “Danya, please-”   
  
“No, no, I want to savour this moment, this sweet little package -” He murmurs, his finger still rubbing over Sergey’s nipple - the nub standing proudly, rubbing against the bones of the corset. “Can’t wait to pierce your nipples, to play with you, to play with your rings as you take my entire cock.”   
  
Sergey groans louder at the thought of Dany fully inside him, his finger still playing with his nipple, his other hand still brushing over the corset biting into his skin. “I- I want you inside me, please, Danya-”   
  
“I don’t think you’re ready for it,” Dany teases, his breath dancing against his cheek. “You haven’t begged quite enough,”   
  
“Danya-” Sergey pleads, trying to push down again but he’s stopped, Dany’s hazel-green eyes gleaming in the dim light, the tip of his dick still pressed inside the younger Russian. He presses in a little more and Sergey can’t stop himself from screaming out, his breath heaving against the corset, his swollen cock still leaking over the dainty lace of his red panties. “Please,” He begs again. “Please, Danya, please,”    
  
And Dany can’t say no, pressing his swollen cock in further, pulling another sigh from Sergey. The younger Russian arches against the bedsheets, his fingers leaving bruises on Dany’s back. Dany looks down at the Russian, at his pale skin covered with slick sweat, his chest rising and falling against the tight corset - the dark red a beautiful contrast against his skin - he looks beautiful. Dany thinks about how nobody has seen this before, nobody has seen Sergey in this position before. They see the shy retiring Russian, the one who lives in baggy t-shirts and sweatpants, not the beautiful man underneath him, his creamy skin on show, pale against the red lingerie. His fingers flick over Sergey’s nipple as he pushes in slowly, carefully. Sergey whines against him, begs for Dany to take him, the Russian pouring from his lips - Dany smirks. He leans in closer, his lips moving over Sergey’s cheek as he presses in further, as far as he can go. He builds up a rhythm, quickly thrusting in and out of the younger Russian.   
  
Sergey screams his name, his hips bucking at the sensation as his eyes slide shut, his chest still heaving against the corset, the bulge of his cock against the lacy underwear. “Best Christmas present ever,” Dany whispers against the gleaming, sweaty skin as Sergey arches back and comes with a grunt, the come soaking against the lace. He looks debauched against the sheets - still laced into the corset - and Dany’s smirk stays on his lips. He thrusts against Sergey’s tight ass, as he feels his orgasm wash over him.  He’s got the best Christmas present to unwrap later he thinks, flopping against Sergey, his softening cock still inside the young Russian. 


	9. flight home (nico/sergio)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergio misses his flight back to Mexico due to the heavy snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the wonderful Kim, I hope you enjoy this - it's been ages since I wrote some Hulkenrez. :))

Sergio Perez hated Nico Hulkenberg. They painted a different picture in front of the cameras, plastered on their biggest smiles in front of the camera flashes. It was easy to pretend - easy for them to fade away into the background when Nico and Lewis would have their public spats, air their dirty laundry in public. But Sergio has never liked the taller German. He has always found him high maintenance, hate his wide crooked smile, hated his smirk as he’d eat a banana in Sergio’s side of the garage - disposing of the peel on his floor. Nico is nothing but nice back to him though, he’s polite, yet bordering on flirtatious the majority of the time - saying every word to Sergio with a smirk on his face. However, the end of the season soon beckons in, with Christmas soon following it - and Sergio finds himself in Monaco of all places, filming some Christmas video with Nico in a Santa hat wearing the most crooked smile on Christmas Eve of all days.    
  
“You look like you don’t want to be here,” Nico states, cocking his head slightly as he looks down at Sergio.    
  
“I don’t want to be here,” Sergio fires back, wishing that he were back at his apartment in Mexico - thinks only of blue skies and of sapphire seas, of sand in the back of his trainers.    
  
“Rather be back in Mexico?” Nico asks, wriggling his eyebrows. “Got some hot chick waiting for you at home?”   
  
“Not really,” Sergio mutters, his cheeks colouring red. He’s really looking forward to hometime, to not seeing the German for a few weeks - not until Force India call him up again ready for testing. He sighs heavily, wanting nothing more than to leave, to catch his flight back to Mexico. He’s daydreaming about the in-flight meal he’s going to choose, about the meal he’ll have when he gets into his apartment when the director calls that the shoot is over. Sergio breathes a sigh of relief as he retreats to his dressing room to pull off the expensive Armani suit. Casting an eye over to the clock, he curses under his breath. The director had kept him longer than usual and he doesn’t have enough time to barely check into his flight. Shoving on his comfiest hoodie and the pair of sweats that are silky soft, he grabs his carry on suitcase and quickly bides the team goodbye and a Merry Christmas, only to step out into the street and curse under his breath.    
  
The streets of Monaco are white with freshly fallen snow. It  _ never _ snows in Monaco - it’s such a rare occurrence, Sergio thinks for a moment as he stares in wonder at the blanket covering all the buildings and the pavements below. The wonder is immediately lost when he realises he needs to get through the snow-covered streets to have any chance of getting to the helipad to catch his helicopter ride to Nice. He thinks about the consequences of being stuck in Monaco - he’d have nobody to stay with, he’d be alone at Christmas -    
  
“You alright?” The voice of the last person that Sergio wanted to hear, pipes up over the silence before he takes in the sight before him. “Shit, that’s some heavy snow-”   
  
“I have to get home,” Sergio says, worrying his lip as he watches the snowflakes come down. “My flight is in less than an hour,”   
  
“Fuck,” Nico curses under his breath before he grabs Sergio’s hand. Sergio stiffens at the sudden sensation of warm fingers closing over his own, at the flicker of something in his chest at the idea of the German holding his hand.    
  
“What are you doing?” Sergio stutters out.    
  
“I’m going to take you to the helipad,” Nico says in a matter-of-fact voice. “My Porsche is faster than any taxi and I don’t mind breaking speed laws,” He finishes with a wide grin on his face, picking up Sergio’s suitcase in his spare hand, his other hand still wrapped around the Mexican’s as he tugs him towards where he’s packed his shiny silver Porsche. Sergio doesn’t have time to argue as he’s pushed into the passenger seat, sinking into the butter-soft grey leather of Nico’s car. Nico wordlessly tosses Sergio’s suitcase into the boot of his car before he slides into the driver’s seat and starts up the car.    
  
They travel through the snow-covered streets wordlessly, Nico’s hands firmly on the steering wheel. Sergio finds himself looking at them, imagining them wrapped around his own hands before he shakes his head as though to dispel the thoughts. He hates the older man, he can’t stand him - he reasons as they continue the drive through the streets, the snow still hitting the window screen as Nico hums along to the song currently playing on the radio. Sergio is sure that Nico has collected about three tickets on the journey so far alone - but the German really doesn’t seem to care. He hums to the Christmas song, his eyes currently on the snow that is getting thicker and thicker with every minute. Nico eventually manages to get them to the helipad in just over eight minutes - half the time that it’s supposed to take - and Sergio feels the smile ghost over his face as Nico slams on his brakes. The Heli Air Monaco building stands before them, blanketed in snow. Sergio barely waits for Nico to kill the engine before he’s slipping off his seatbelt and running to the boot to collect his suitcase. Nico follows wordlessly, his eyes still locked on the snow falling around them. Sergio darts over to the double doors of the building, carrying his suitcase as quickly as he can.    
  
However, when he reaches the front desk, the lady shakes her head at him. She speaks to him in French, which just confuses him even more - and he tries to speak back to her in both Spanish and then in English but with little success.    
  
“What’s the problem?” Nico’s voice pipes up behind him - but instead of the sigh that usually brushes past Sergio’s lips when he hears his teammate’s voice, his chest flutters. Nico moves up behind him, a mega watt smile on his face.    
  
“I’m trying to tell her that I need to get home,” Sergio mutters, glaring as Nico moves forward with the smile still on his lips and immediately sinks into conversational French with the woman behind the desk. They seem to bandy back and forth, Sergio wishing that he could understand a shred of French - he vows to start leaning it as one of his resolutions in the new year. Nico eventually turns to Sergio with a grave expression on his face.    
  
“She said all flights are cancelled,” He says, worrying his lip between his teeth. “There’s no outgoing flights from Monaco to Nice,”   
  
“But my plane is going from Nice tonight!” Sergio says, brow furrowed. Can she check flights to Mexico City airport?”   
  
Nico nods once and turns back to the lady at the desk, sinking back into French. She types into her computer - the time seems to tick away, seconds, minutes - before she shakes her head and says something back to Nico who immediately turns his gaze to Sergio. “She said that Nice Airport is closed due to adverse weather conditions...they’ve never had weather like this,”   
  
“It’s closed?” Sergio mutters, panic surging through his chest. He’s going to be stranded in Monaco at Christmas - he won’t be able to fly back until the snow is cleared and he has no idea how long the airports will be closed for.    
  
“She said that it’s not just Nice - this snowstorm is hanging over all of Southern France, all the airports are closed all the way up to Lyon and there’s no sign of it clearing anytime soon,”   
  
“But what am I going to do?” Sergio says, panic flooding his chest. “I’m stuck here with nowhere to stay,”   
  
Nico is silent for a moment, eyes roving over the snow still falling outside. “You...you could stay with me,”   
  
Sergio feels his eyes widen at his teammates comment. “What do you mean?”   
  
“The hotels will be full on Christmas Eve, I have a spare room you can stay in until you get home if you want,” Nico says, his tone suddenly softening. “I mean, if you want-”   
  
“I- why would you do that?” Sergio asks, his mouth turning dry.    
  
“It’s Christmas,” Nico says simply. “I’d be a shit person if I left you in the streets of Monaco on Christmas Eve,”   
  
Sergio has no answer. He allows Nico to guide him back to his Porsche, allows the German to place his suitcase back into the boot. He doesn’t say a word as Nico slowly drives back through the snow-covered streets of Monaco, still thinking about Nico’s words. The thoughts don’t stop, even as Nico kills the engine outside his apartment and opens Sergio’s door to allow him out. The snow is still falling, the flakes sticking in his hair - as he follows Nico into the lobby of the apartment block. He says nothing else as they ride up in the elevator. He thinks only of Nico’s words over and over as the German unlocks the apartment and allows Sergio in. It’s beautiful inside and tastefully decorated - it’s strangely clean, he realises, as he takes in the sight of the enormous couch before him covered in cushions and the wine coloured throw hanging over the back.    
  
“It’s not much…but it’s home,” Nico says, toeing off his shoes and moving into the open plan kitchen. Sergio pulls off his own shoes as he drops his suitcase to his feet, watching Nico float around the kitchen, pulling the top off two bottles of beer. “Bought it just over a year ago and managed to get it just right,” He hands the bottle to Sergio. “You’re very quiet,”   
  
“I just don’t understand it...I’m awful to you and you’ve let me stay over,” He says, taking in the sight of Monaco illuminated through the tall French windows. “You should kick me out,”   
  
“Why don’t you like me?” Nico asks softly, his blue eyes locking on the Mexican. “Like what is it about me that you don’t like?”   
  
“Nico-”   
  
“No, please, tell me,” Nico says, his voice still soft. “Like what is it you don’t like?”   
  
“Nico, please-”   
  
“I insist, I want to know why you don’t like me. I know you don’t, you’re so indifferent to me, you act like you want to be anywhere else-”   
  
“You’re just too high maintenance for me!” Sergio finds the words slipping out. “You’re just everything that anyone has ever wanted, you’re smart, you’re beautiful, you’re funny, you make everyone’s attention fall on you,” He pauses for a breath. “Nobody even bothers to look at me when you’re around,”   
  
“That’s not true-”    
  
“It is!” Sergio argues back. “Nobody even bothers to notice that I am there when you’re around, everyone just focuses on you only,”   
  
“I don’t look at them,” Nico says quietly, allowing the Mexican’s anger to burst free. “I look at you,”   
  
“And everyone would rather you were standing next to them and - what?” He says, with widened eyes. “What did you just say?”   
  
“I look at you,” Nico repeats, lip caught between his teeth. “I don’t notice any of what they’re doing because I’m too busy looking at you,”   
  
“I-” Sergio feels his mouth drop open. “What?”   
  
Nico smiles - but it’s not the megawatt one that Sergio is used to seeing, it’s a small one, one which he knows is the German’s true smile. “I liked you for such a long time,”   
  
“But why?”   
  
“You’re all those things you said I was. I’ve never met anyone quite like you,” Nico says, the smile still clinging to his face. “I was glad when the snow started falling...and I wasted time on purpose because well, I’ve been wanting to tell you for such a long time what I’ve been feeling-” His voice lowers as he leans in closer, his eyes seem to glow in the dim light as his hand brushes against Sergio’s cheek. “So fucking long,” He murmurs, closing the gap as his lips fold over Sergio’s slowly. Sergio melts into the kiss, Nico’s slightly chapped lips moving over his own, his hand moving to fist into the dark curls. Time seems to stop as Sergio thinks of nothing but how good Nico’s lips feel against his own, how good it feels to have the German holding him, his arms sliding around his waist like they belong there. All the old feelings seem to melt away, like old snow, as they lose themselves in each other. Nico slowly pulls away, his lips still shining with saliva, his eyes locked on Sergio.    
  
“Checo-” He begins but Sergio lightly slaps him across the cheek playfully. “What was that for?”   
  
“That was for wasting time on purpose,” Sergio says, still giddy, his lips still tingling.    
  
“You’ll thank me later,” Nico mutters, a smirk curling over his lips and Sergio doesn’t have the heart to disagree. He watches the snow continue falling outside the windows, Nico’s arms still wrapped around him and realises that this is where he’s supposed to be at Christmas.    
  
Sergio Perez doesn’t hate Nico Hulkenberg as much as he thought. In fact, he’s rather fond of the German, he thinks later on as Nico leads him to his bedroom, smiles painted on both of their lips. There are worst places to spend Christmas.


	10. home for christmas (artem/mitch)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artem meets Mitch's parents for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the wonderful Sally, I hope you enjoy this :)

They had never really discussed it before - Mitch wasn’t the kind of person who really spoke about his family in great detail. However, they had been dating for just over a year and Mitch had gone out to New Zealand with his parents last year whilst Artem had stayed in Moscow. This year however, Mitch had broached the subject earlier in the year, asking Artem tentatively what his Christmas plans were.  It had seemed like a good idea at the time - to join Mitch and his fathers at their place in the South of England - not too cold like Russia or too warm like New Zealand - and spend the entire holiday there. However, there was one small problem. Artem had never met Mitch’s parents. He barely spoke of them, which was strange, as he always seemed to be on the phone with them or texting them silly messages. He never asked why Mitch spoke of his fathers, he just assumed that Mitch was just a private person in that aspect.    
  
He worries about it for the entire duration of the journey - even when Mitch’s head is resting against his shoulder on the plane back to London. He smiles down at his boyfriend, glancing over at the dark brown hair falling out of the product he usually puts it in. He wonders how Mitch can sleep so peacefully as he glances out of the window at the white fluffy clouds below - knowing that the snow is most definitely falling.  He’s quiet when he’s driving their car towards Mitch’s parents house - the radio is blasting out Christmas song quietly as Artem slowly drives through the streets, the snow still floating down around them. The anxiety builds and builds as suddenly, the Sat Nav announces that they’re almost at their destination - and he swallows the lump in his throat as he sees the house that has featured in so many of Mitch’s facebook photos. Mitch seems to sense his boyfriend’s worry, his hand moving to clasp at Artem’s knee.    
  
“It’s okay, it’s just my parents,” He says softly.    
  
“But what if they hate me?” Artem says quietly, his eyes fixed on the house rising up before them. “What if they don’t think I’m good enough for you?”   
  
“They won’t hate you, I am sure they will love you as much as I do,” Mitch says, waggling his eyebrows as he squeezes Artem’s thigh. The Russian kills the engine and takes a deep breath, glancing up at the house.    
  
“Come on, beautiful,” Mitch murmurs as he gives Artem’s thigh one final squeeze.    
  
The door opens as Mitch and Artem make their way over the driveway - Artem noting that the driveway has already been meticulously cleared - and Artem stiffens at the sight of Mark Webber standing there wearing an interesting Christmas jumper. There’s the ugliest reindeer knitted on the front and in any other circumstance, Artem would laugh at the sight of the Australian in such an ugly get up, but he glances over to Mitch and then back at Mark and everything becomes clear. Mark is  _ Mitch’s father _ .    
  
“Mitchell,” Mark says, lighting up at the sight of the Kiwi standing next to Artem. He strides forward and envelopes Mitch into a hug which the shorter man reciprocates, his arms sliding around the Australian’s lithe form.    
  
“Dad,” Mitch says, melting into Mark and Artem stands awkwardly watching the pair for a moment, still in shock at the revelation that Mark is Mitch’s father. The secrecy suddenly makes sense, the reasons why Mark ends up in Mitch’s garage watching him all make sense. “Dad,” Mitch pulls away, the smile still clinging to his lips. “This is my boyfriend, Artem,”    
  
Artem watches Mark’s smile fade slightly as his dark green eyes land on him. “I thought you two were just teammates,”   
  
“Dad,” Artem recognises Mitch’s warning voice.  “We’re not talking about that now,”   
  
Mark holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, what happened to Alex though? He was such a lovely boy,”   
  
“ _ Dad _ ,” Mitch says exasperatedly.    
  
Artem worries his lip as Mitch grabs hold of his hand - his warm fingers curling around Artem’s as he pushes the Russian into the house. It’s everything that Artem imagined - there’s a coat rack to the left and several pairs of wellington boots and smart shoes lined up neatly underneath. There’s a huge tree in the middle of the hallway, the red and blue baubles glittering in the light.  He’s toeing off his shoes when two enormous dogs appear out of nowhere, skidding across the floor. They immediately rush over to Artem, nosing at him, scenting the stranger in their house.    
  
“Simba! Shadow!” A voice that Artem is sure he is familiar with calls from another room. Artem freezes in his tracks, his hands still on the dogs still rubbing themselves on him as Sebastian Vettel appears before him. He’s about to open his mouth to speak when Sebastian’s eyes land on Mitch.    
  
“Mitchell, I’m so glad you’re home,” He says, warmly pulling his son into a hug, careful to stop his flour covered hands from touching Mitch’s coat. His eyes take in the sight of Artem still standing behind Mitch with his snow-covered coat still draped over his shoulders. “And who is this lovely young man?”   
  
“His new boyfriend, Seb,” Mark pipes up behind him as he scrapes his feet on the welcome mat. Sebastian glowers at him for a moment as Mark brushes past Mitch and Artem to brush a light kiss against the German’s cheek. “What?” He says when Sebastian’s glare fixes on him.    
  
“I told you to be nice,” Sebastian says, eyes narrowing.    
  
“And I am being nice! It wasn’t worth not being able to touch you that night-” Mark says, leaning into Sebastian, his wedding ring glinting gently in the lights of the hallway.    
  
“Not in front of our son, Mark,” Sebastian says, turning his head slightly.  Mark grumbles under his breath, saying something about taking Mitch’s case upstairs. “It’s lovely to meet you...Mitch didn’t say he was bringing anyone for Christmas,”   
  
Artem feels his cheeks colour as Sebastian steps forward and pulls him into a hug. “Not that you aren’t welcome, because you are,”   
  
“Made enough mince pies to feed an army, Papa?” Mitch teases as he pulls off his coat and darts past Sebastian into the kitchen.    
  
“Not before your dinner, mausi,” Sebastian scolds, following his son to the kitchen. 

Artem slowly slides his coat from his shoulders as he takes in what he’s just witnessed - Mitch’s parents are  _ Mark Webber and Sebastian Vettel. _ He never thought he would see the day that they were together, wearing matching Christmas sweaters and smiling at each other. However, before he can follow Mitch into the kitchen, he spots his boyfriend’s other case still standing in the hallway. Deciding to save Mitch’s father a job, he grabs the case and slowly begins to climb the stairs. It’s heavy and Artem struggles as he glances at all the closed doors, trying to guess which one belongs to his boyfriend. He’s about to open the first one when the door suddenly opens and a tall, lithe figure slams into Artem, nearly knocking him over.    
  
“Sorry, Mitch, oh-” Mark begins, only to glance down into Artem’s soft brown eyes. “Sorry,” He repeats again.    
  
“I was bringing Mitch’s other case up for him, thought I’d save you a job,” Artem says, trying to keep eye contact. 

“That’s okay, son, I can handle it,” Mark says and Artem fights not to glance down at the jumper adorning the tall Australian. “Looking at you though, I think my son has a type,”   
  
“What do you mean?” Artem asks with a raised eyebrow.    
  
“Well, Mitch’s last boyfriend was tall, dark and handsome, he had the same eyes as you as well,” Mark says quietly, his eyes gazing over Artem’s lanky form.    
  
Artem feels his cheeks colour at Mark’s words.  However, he is prevented from replying to Mark’s comment as a pair of warm arms fold themselves around his midsection, warm lips brushing over his neck. “Hello beautiful,” Mitch’s familiar Kiwi accent curls around the nickname and Artem feels his cheeks heat up even more as Mark raises an eyebrow at his son’s behaviour. “You getting to know my dad?”   
  
“I guess you could say that,” Artem mumbles out. He allows Mitch’s hand to curl around and lead him away from the room.    
  


* * *

  
  
Artem wishes he’d never agreed to come with Mitch - that he had stood firm and allowed them to have their own Christmas in the New Year -  Sebastian tries his hardest to make Artem feel welcome, filling him with Christmas cookies and mulled wine filled with spices but Artem’s attention is solely on the tall glowering Australian that sits across from him. He tries to keep his feelings hidden as to not upset his boyfriend who seems to glow at the feeling of being home once more until they’re curled up in bed together. Mark had seemed to want to argue with Sebastian when Mitch announced that he and Artem were going to bed  _ together _ . The feelings seem to lessen slightly as Mitch curls up around him, happy, content and full of food.    
  
“What’s the matter?” Mitch’s voice murmurs against his neck, his lips barely brushing over the skin.    
  
Artem sighs heavily. “It’s nothing,”   
  
“It isn’t nothing, I know you ‘Tem. I know there’s something not quite right,” Mitch says in his deep, calm voice.    
  
Artem worries his lip as Mitch turns around in his arms, his dark brown eyes fixing on his boyfriend. “It’s nothing honestly,”   
  
“What’s got you worked up, hmm?” Mitch asks, his voice like honey as his hand moves to gently cup Artem’s face.

“Your dad, I don’t think he likes me,” Artem admits. “I just...I think he really wanted you to be with Alex, he seems to hate me and the thought of you dating me-”   
  
“He doesn’t hate you,” Mitch says quietly, his thumb rubbing over Artem’s cheek. “He just seems very cold and cut off to some people, he hated Alex when I dated him,”   
  
“He just makes me feel like I’m not good enough for you,” Artem mutters, not wanting to look into Mitch’s dark brown eyes. “And like, you never told me who your parents are,”   
  
“I didn’t want you to see me as Sebastian and Mark’s son, I wanted you to see me-”   
  
“I always have,” Artem says softly, his eyes meeting Mitch’s. “You are your own person, you’re kind, funny, smart and that’s why I love you,”   
  
“And I love you too, and my father will grow to love you as much as I do,” Mitch says, leaning in a little closer.   
  
His lips move to ghost against Artem’s and the Russian melts underneath him. Mitch has always had that effect on him - has always managed to make him feel like he was the only one that mattered. Mitch’s thumb caresses over his cheek as their lips fold over each other, the attention only on each other.  Artem’s worries about Mark melt away at the sight of his boyfriend’s gleaming eyes and wide smile.    
  
Christmas is theirs and theirs alone, he thinks as they move together, the kiss deepening as Mitch’s hands paw at Artem’s soft, thin pyjamas. Mark will complain later that day about the noise coming from his son’s bedroom but Mitch will smile and wrap his hand around Artem’s, the lovebite that the Russian left just barely visible under the collar of his Christmas jumper.    
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  



	11. mistletoe (alex/pierre)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre worries that he's not gotten over Antonio. Alex makes him forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the wonderful Romca - I hope you enjoy :)

Pierre isn’t sure how he ended up at Mitch’s Christmas party - the Kiwi himself is already very drunk, wrapped up in Stoffel’s arms with a pair of sparkly reindeer antlers pressed into his dark curls - he’s almost shagging the Belgian against the couch cushions. Pierre glances around the room and tries to pick out anyone he knows - he spots Ollie sitting on one of the couches, yet he’s stopped from going to say hello by the sight of Richie Stanaway in his lap, nipping a lovebite into the Brit’s pale skin.    
  
It almost makes him miss Antonio. They’d dated for about a year - the Italian had teased things out of him that he didn’t even know he had - he remembers the evenings where they’d just lay in bed, Antonio with his sweat slicked hair hanging in his eyes, his arm wrapped around Pierre pulling him closer. Everything the gossip magazine said about Italians as lovers was absolutely true. Pierre had soon discovered this when Antonio had shoved his pants down, his lips on his dick, sucking his balls into his mouth -    
Pierre still did miss Antonio. He sighs heavily and grabs another glass of champagne. He tries to ignore Stoffel and Mitch snogging in the chair in front of him. He never expected those two to end up together - they seemed like an unlikely couple. Pierre himself had nursed a crush on Stoffel for the first two weeks of GP2, but he had eyes for nobody but the vibrant Kiwi. They suited one another in a way - Stoffel’s calm and collected manner was a perfect foil for Mitch’s outrageous in-your-face attitude. Mitch had promised that Antonio wasn’t coming - that he was busy in Indonesia with his new boyfriend - some rich guy who obviously is better in bed than Pierre and has lots more money. Pierre gulps down his champagne trying not to think of Antonio fucking his new boyfriend on a bed of silk sheets with fifty dollar bills surrounding them. He takes another drink, the champagne as bitter as his thoughts on his tongue.    
  
“Guess you’re sick of seeing Mitchy practically fuck Vandoorne in front of everyone too?” A familiar voice pipes up and Pierre glances up into a pair of dark brown eyes that he knows all too well. Alex looks gorgeous - he always does, Pierre reasons - his skinny form encased in a white shirt, his hair looking soft and feathered.    
  
“It’s nothing new,” Pierre says, slamming down the glass. “Christmas just makes you realise how lonely you are sometimes,”   
  
“Yeah, I get that...Mitchy sure likes the attention though, I remember when he used to snog me like that in full view of everyone. He begged me to fuck him behind the tyre wall in Monza once,” He says, flopping onto the couch cushions next to Pierre and taking a sip of his own drink - it looks like vodka and coke, Pierre thinks, looking at the dark liquid before back to Alex’s chocolate brown eyes.    
  
“I forgot about you two,” Pierre says, the dizziness of the drink already washing over him.    
  
“I was just a notch on his bedpost,” Alex says, a touch of bitterness tinges his voice as he takes another swig of his drink. “Then he met Vandoorne and well, nothing else mattered to him then. Stoffel managed to do what every other person had failed to do, he had tamed the Kiwi,”   
  
“Hey,” Pierre says softly, his hand moving to catch Alex’s wrist. “It’s not your fault that he was a slut-”   
  
“Yeah, well, doesn’t matter much now,” Alex says, shaking his head gently. “I soon got over it, I suppose,” He slams the rest of his alcohol back and Pierre winces at the sensation.    
  
His eyes slide back over to Mitch who is currently in Stoffel’s lap, pressing kisses against the Belgian’s cheek. Pierre remembers when he used to be like Mitch, when he’d be in Antonio’s lap, when the Italian’s attention was solely on him - when Antonio would smile at him like he was the only person in the world. He misses it sometimes, he misses having someone close by. Antonio and he lived together for a few months and Pierre misses waking up next to someone in the morning. He remembers Antonio’s ruffled sleep hair, he remembers the soft smile that would ghost his lips as they looked into each other’s eyes.    
He sighs heavily, grabbing another glass of champagne. It’s been six months since Antonio had ended it, said that it wasn’t what he wanted. It wasn’t until two months later that Pierre was checking Facebook and opened Antonio’s profile by accident. It wasn’t the bronzed skin of his ex boyfriend that caught his eye, but the man with his arms around him. They looked cosy together, cuddled up on what looked like a yacht. Pierre would later discover that the man Antonio was playing boyfriends with was the son of a millionaire and the yacht actually belonged to him. It made Pierre look around at his crappy apartment in Milton Keynes, at his shitty little Renault and wonder if Antonio was in love with something else.    
  
“Look at us,” Alex’s voice cuts in, pulling Pierre away from his memories of whispered promises and dark green eyes. “We really need to move on from them don’t we?”   
  
“That’s easier said than done,” Pierre murmurs, the alcohol still heavy on his tongue. “I just wonder if things had gone differently, if I had fallen in love with someone else-” He stops mid-sentence as his eyes meet a familiar dark green pair that he hadn’t seen for six months.    
  
The same pair that he had looked into, with tears in his eyes, as the person had told him that they didn’t love him anymore are at the other end of the room. “Antonio-” Pierre whispers and Alex stiffens at the side of him. Time seems to slow down as Pierre blinks once as though to discard the visage of his ex boyfriend but the Italian remains where he is, standing in the corner of the room. Pierre feels the breath knock out of his lips as he takes in the sight of Antonio, with his rich boyfriend, hand curled around his skinny waist. Pierre doesn’t know why he does it, pulling himself away from the couch with tears in his eyes. He ignores Alex’s shouts as he slumps against the wall outside, taking in deep breaths of cool air. The sobs soon come afterwards, seizing inside his chest as he thinks about what he lost - what he and Antonio used to have - he wonders if this rich boy made Antonio smile in the same way.    
  
“Pear,” Alex’s voice breaks through the silence and Pierre feels the walls that he built a long time ago slide back into place. “Pear, please-”   
  
“Don’t-” Pierre says wetly, feeling the tears soak into his cheeks. “I don’t deserve any sympathy,”   
  
“It was shit of him to come with his new boyfriend,” Alex says softly, worrying his lip between his teeth. “Especially around Christmas,”   
  
“I just...I didn’t think he would move on so quickly,” Pierre says, hating how weak he sounds. “I still love him even now, it’s been months-”   
  
“Hey,” Alex says softly, his hand moving to brush against Pierre’s cheek, swiping the tears away. “It’s okay to be upset, Pear. You loved him, you probably still do,”   
  
“I don’t know if I love him anymore,” Pierre admits, tears still falling down his cheeks. Alex strokes over his cheek, catching the tear on the pad of his thumb. “I just-” He stops, his blue eyes catching sight of something hanging above them. He’s certain that it’s the familiar fresh green leaves of a mistletoe plant - certainly something that Mitch would do - shove mistletoe everywhere - but Pierre’s thoughts soon melt away as Alex leans in and tentatively brushes their lips together. Pierre sighs against the Brit’s lips, feeling the warmth brush over his chest. Alex’s lips are warm and slightly chapped against his own, and he feels like he has to stand on his tiptoes to even reach the taller Brit. His hand move to fist into Alex’s shirt, his other hand moving to cup at his smooth face, allowing the chapped lips to dance over his own. Any thought of Antonio melts away, the scent of Alex - of cologne and of his shampoo dance over Pierre’s nostrils - nobody has ever kissed him the way Alex does.    
  
The Brit pulls away for a moment, glancing down into Pierre’s eyes. Pierre stares back, his heart hammering against his chest - he’s just  _ kissed Alex _ . He exhales deeply, trying to pull some air into his lungs. Alex, sensing his panic, grabs hold of Pierre’s hand, his fingers immediately stroking over the smaller Frenchman’s.    
  
“Hey, it’s okay,” Alex whispers, his eyes fixed on the man before him.    
  
Pierre can’t look into those dark brown eyes, he doesn’t want to see the emotions that Alex is betraying. He glances up at the mistletoe, only to find that the leaves aren’t as smooth as he anticipated - in fact, the mistletoe is in fact -    
  
“Holly,” Alex says softly, a smile ghosting over his lips. “It’s a holly branch,”   
  
Pierre glances at Alex, at the amused expression on his face and the tiny crinkles in his eyes and feels the smile brush over his face. He thinks about the warmth in his chest, about how all thought of Antonio had left the second Alex’s lips had touched his own, about how good it felt to be in Alex’s arms.    
  
“I don’t give a fuck what it is, kiss me again,” He finds himself saying, and Alex obliges. Their lips meet again, the holly still hanging from the roof innocuously.    



	12. doesn't feel like christmas at all (pierre/stoffel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre makes some mistakes, Stoffel forgives him for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the wonderful Livy, enjoy :)

Pierre sighs heavily as he flicks through the channels for the hundredth time - bypassing all the festive films. He’s not really in the mood for Christmas he thinks as he glances at his phone. It’s been silent for a few days, Stoffel at some McLaren simulator training camp ready to prepare himself for the year ahead of him. Pierre is so proud of his boyfriend, he’s proud of what he’s achieved this year - Stoffel has worked so hard to get to where he is now and Pierre had nearly cried when he’d seen his boyfriend in his McLaren overalls. He thinks about the moment when Stoffel asked him out at the Christmas party last year, the Belgian had been slightly drunk, a pair of reindeer antlers were sitting in his hair.    
  
_ “Pierre G-Gasly-” Stoffel had murmured, a lazy smile curling over his lips. “Where have you been?” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “I’ve been here all night,” Pierre had said, finding the concept of drunken Stoffel very amusing. It was usually Pierre who was off his face by this point, who had his shirt unbuttoned and another drink in his hand. However, this time it was Stoffel baring his slightly tanned collarbone with half a drink down the front of his shirt and glassy, unfocused eyes.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “You’re lying, you haven’t been here all night,” Stoffel murmurs out before he giggles to himself. “You’ve been avoiding me,” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “You were dancing with Alex,” Pierre points out, unable to keep the smile from his face.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Yeah, and you were- were being boring,” Stoffel says, swaying lightly on his feet. Pierre has to tear his eyes away from Stoffel’s slightly tanned chest, to the slight dusting of dark hair on the skin, to fix on Stoffel’s light blue eyes.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Thanks for the support, Stoff,” Pierre says, a smile on his lips. He glances at his watch and worries his lip. “But I have to go, I have some training to do in the morning,” However, as he turns away, a warm hand curls over his wrist pulling him back. “Stay,” Stoffel murmurs thickly, eyes boring into Pierre’s.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Why?” Pierre asks, raising an eyebrow.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Because I like you,” Stoffel slurs out. “And the only reason I am saying it now is because I’m too more of a chicken to tell you when I’m sober,” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “What do you mean you like me?” Pierre cuts in, confusion dancing over his features. “We’re friends, of course you-” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Pierre, don’t be so dense,” Stoffel murmurs out. “I like you as more than a friend, that’s what I mean,”  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Pierre still remembers snippets of that night of Stoffel leaning in and capturing his lips, of his hand curling through Stoffel’s dark hair, knocking the reindeer headband out and onto the floor. They’d been inseparable since then - of course, Pierre had his doubts as to whether Stoffel’s admission was just a result of too much alcohol - but they’d woken up the morning after curled around each other. Stoffel had glanced at Pierre with heavy lidded eyes, a smile on his lips.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Good morning,” He had whispered, his voice thick with sleep as his lips had pulled Pierre’s into a kiss.  _ _   
_ _   
_ Pierre shakes the thoughts from his head as he glances at the Christmas tree - he’d put it up with Stoffel this year, the pair of them talking about what they were going to do at Christmas. He’d watched his boyfriend, dressed in his most festive Christmas jumper and felt the smile brush against his lips, slowly untangling the baubles from one another. But then a few days later, Stoffel had packed his suitcase with apologetic blue eyes - something about McLaren training and Pierre couldn’t deny him that opportunity. All the Christmas cheer that had been building inside Pierre disappeared when Stoffel had walked out of the door, his suitcase going into the boot. He promised he’d be home in time. However, Pierre’s phone had been worrying silent for a couple of days - Stoffel had said he was busy and that he didn’t really have time to do anything other than fire a few texts to his boyfriend about how much he’s missing him. He glances at his watch - Stoffel should be home by now, his flight landed well over two and a half hours ago and they only lived about a forty minutes drive from the airport.    
  
He broke his promise, Pierre’s brain supplies as he turns off the television in his annoyance - eyes moving to gaze back at the Christmas tree. He tries to imagine Christmas on his own, with nobody but their cat for company - Stoffel had brought her home about two months ago. Pierre remembers the moment when Stoffel had come home with her tucked up in his coat with a huge smile on his face. Pierre had melted at the expression on his boyfriend’s face. The cat, that they named Felix, lies curled up on the blanket that is covering Pierre’s lap and legs. He gives her a little stroke and she purrs contentedly. He glances back at the clock - wonders if something has happened to Stoffel. A flare of panic curls inside his chest at the mere thought. Felix nudges closer to him, her face brushing against his fingers  as he thinks back to when Stoffel first asked him out.   
  
“ _ You should go out with me,” Stoffel says with gleaming blue eyes. “I mean, like on a proper date,” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “And I told you that we were just keeping it casual,” Pierre replies, trying not to glance at the taller man. Ever since the night at the Christmas party, their relationship had developed into something that he couldn’t quite define. They weren’t together. Pierre didn’t want commitment, he knew he was scared of giving himself up to Stoffel - it was more of a convenience to both of them. Stoffel liked sex and Pierre was only too happy to oblige. However, he found himself going back to Alex again and again, the pair of them twisting between the sheets, Alex’s mark left on his collarbone.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “But I don’t think I want that anymore,” Stoffel admits. Pierre feels the panic rise up inside his chest at the Belgian’s words. “I want something more,” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “I have to go,” Pierre finds himself saying, watching Stoffel’s face suddenly fall as he makes his excuses and leaves. He ends up back at Alex’s flat, back in the Brit’s arms with his lips on his neck. He lays awake when they’re lying twisted together in the sheets, hating himself as Stoffel’s face rises up in front of him. He hates the fact that he was the reason Stoffel’s face looked that way.   _ _   
_ _   
_ Felix purrs against his hand, her light breath tickling his fingers.  He can feel his eyelids getting heavier and heavier, sleep tugging at him - he thinks about being alone at Christmas, about Stoffel still in wherever his training was this time around, not being able to make it back to the apartment they shared, not about to spend their first Christmas together as a proper couple. Pierre fiddles with his phone, flicking through his contacts, his eyes landing on Alex’s contact number. He wonders if he should send the Brit a text, but his eyelids fall down lower and lower. Sleep overtakes him, his last thoughts are of Stoffel, of the last time he had seen his boyfriend, a small smile ghosting over his lips. He dreams about the time when Stoffel had found out about Alex, had found out that he wasn’t the perfect boyfriend.    
  
_ “What the fuck is going on?” Stoffel murmurs, his blue eyes narrowing at the sight of Alex and Pierre cuddled up in the bed together.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Nothing...nothing is happening,” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Doesn’t look like nothing,” Stoffel says, glaring at Alex’s bare chest. “Looks like something,” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Look, we’re not exclusive,” Pierre says and instantly regrets it - Stoffel’s face immediately drops and he turns on his heel, shrugging his coat back onto his shoulders. “What are you doing?” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Leaving,” Stoffel snaps back, threading his scarf back through his neck. “I really don’t need this right now,” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Stoff - please-”  Pierre begins, his hand moving to brush against his shoulder but the Belgian shrugs him away. “Pierre, just fuck off-” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Stoffel, please,” Pierre tries again, following the Belgian down the stairs of his apartment. “Let me explain,” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “You’ve made it pretty clear what you think of me,” Stoffel says, his face filled with unadulterated fury.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Stoff-” Pierre mutters, pulling in the Belgian close. “I...I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry,” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “I don’t believe you,” Stoffel says softly. “I just...I loved you and you just made me feel like I was nothing,” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “I didn’t mean to - I was scared -” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Just save your words, I don’t want to hear them,” Stoffel snaps, his eyes looking cold and hard.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Please,” Pierre whispers, pulling on Stoffel’s wrist. “Please, I never wanted you to find out-” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Guess it’s too late for that isn’t it?” _ _   
_ __   
Pierre suddenly jolts awake as someone gently shakes his shoulder. Blinking the sleep away from his eyes, he finds a familiar looking coat in front of him - Stoffel’s staring at him with a smile curving over his lips. “Stoff, you’re here-”   
  
“I always said I would be,” Stoffel replies, smiling gently at his boyfriend. “I promised I’d be back in time for Christmas,”   
  
“But I - I thought that you were-” Pierre pauses as Stoffel’s hand brushes over his cheek, the dark blue eyes gazing into his own. “I thought you were-”   
  
“It’s okay,” Stoffel says quietly.  “I had to make it back, I had to-”   
  
“I dreamt about the Alex thing again,” Pierre says quietly under his breath. “I thought that you didn’t want me anymore, that you remembered all of that,”   
  
“The thing with Alex and you is in the past,” Stoffel’s voice is quiet, barely audible as his thumb dances over his boyfriend’s cheek. “I’m over now and you should be too,”   
  
“It’s not that easy to forget about, I hurt you-” Pierre says, shaking his head. “I made you think that I didn’t care about you,”   
  
“Pear, it was years ago, we moved on since then,” Stoffel says carefully, his thumb still stroking over the Frenchman’s cheek. “It’s just the dream you had unsettled you, we’re okay, we have been for over a year, I’m here now,”

Pierre nods once. “I’m still sorry,”   
  
“And I’ve accepted your apology before,” Stoffel says calmly. “I’m sorry it took so long, traffic was horrendous. I just knew I had to get home for Christmas,” His thumb continues brushing over Pierre’s cheek as he leans in and presses their lips together. Pierre melts against him, forgetting all about what they used to be as Stoffel’s lips fold against his own. They seem to kiss for an eternity - it certainly seems that away, the past fading away as it gives way to the future, to the thought of just them wrapped up together. The spell is only broken a minute later when Felix jolts awake and scrambles away from Pierre’s lap with a face like thunder. The couple just laugh, their bodies still joined together.    
  
“Merry Christmas,” Stoffel giggles against Pierre’s lips.

 


	13. in knots (nsfw, andre/brendon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you doing for Christmas this year?”
> 
> It seemed an innocent enough question at the time, yet a question that made Brendon wonder how on earth he had managed to end up tied down to Andre Lotterer’s bed on Christmas Eve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is disgusting slutty bad porn and it's for the wonderful Lewis. Enjoy baby, thank you for everything :)

“What are you doing for Christmas this year?”   
  
It seemed an innocent enough question at the time, yet a question that made Brendon wonder how on earth he had managed to end up tied down to Andre Lotterer’s bed on Christmas Eve. He tests the waters a little - testing how tight Andre has tied the ropes to his wrists, the blindfold he’s wearing is scratchy against his eyes and his cock is already weeping in anticipation. His tongue runs over his dry lips as he hears the familiar tones of Andre from somewhere at the side of him.    
  
“So, have you been naughty or nice?” Andre purrs, stretching out the words slowly as though Brendon is a child. Brendon suddenly feels something brush up against the naked curve of his back, it’s cold and hard - almost like leather - and he bites down on his lip. “Don’t say you’ve suddenly gone shy, Brendon, certainly not after our last meeting together,” He mutters, tone curving slowly around Brendon’s name - and Brendon tries not to cry out as he feels the whip brush over the curves of pale skin on his back. He feels Andre press the whip into the curve of his back, following his spine slowly down to rest over the crack of his ass. He inhales in sharply - pushes his ass up a little into the air, not that it will make much difference, Andre loves to tease - but he likes how there’s a sharp intake of breath from the German as Brendon bites back a moan.    
  
“So have you been naughty or nice?” Andre asks again, his lips slowly curving over the words, the whip moving to brush over the crack of Brendon’s ass. “Have you been a naughty boy? Do you need a punishment?”   
  
“Yes,” Brendon murmurs out - but Andre withdraws the whip away from the Kiwi’s soft smooth skin, making him groan out in frustration.    
  
“Yes, what?” Andre says expectedly.    
  
“Yes,  _ Sir _ ,” Brendon mutters out as the leather of the whip brushes back against his back. “I’ve been so very naughty,”   
  
“So you want to be punished, do you?” Andre whispers. “I know what you want though, you want my cock deep inside you, filling you like the little slut that you are,”   
  
Brendon makes a low guttural moan in his throat at Andre’s words - and he knows that the German is smirking as the whip dips lower and lower, brushing over his ass. “I’ve been so so naughty, Sir,”   
  
“I know you have,” Andre answers back, his voice low and guttural. “But I also know that what I’m about to do to you is not a punishment,”   
  
“And what are you going to do to me-” Brendon begins before he’s cut off by a sharp whip against his asscheeks, the leather bites into his skin and the bite of pain flares for a moment before it gives way to a wave of pleasure. “Oh fuck,”   
  
“Maybe later, darling,” Andre purrs as the whip bites into Brendon’s skin again, reddening his pale ass. “Maybe if you behave for me,”   
  
“Andre, please,” Brendon pleads but he knows that it’s to no avail - Andre is in control and he knows it - the whip brushes over his ass again. “I need-”   
  
Andre tuts under his breath. “Unfortunately, it isn’t what you need. It’s what I think you need,” The whip dips lower once again. “You’re just a slut aren’t you?”   
  
“I am, Sir,” Brendon whispers.    
  
“And you want your Christmas present from me don’t you? You want my fat cock in your ass don’t you?”   
  
Brendon mewls as Andre’s hand brushes over the curve of his ass, they’re hard and weathered and he can feel the callouses from Andre’s many years of driving. He thinks of all the times that Andre has fucked him raw before, all the times that Andre has left him gripping the bedsheets, his hole wet and slippery from lube and the German’s come. “I do, I want it so much,”   
  
“Doesn’t seem like you do,” Andre says quietly, almost teasing. “You’re not begging quite so hard enough,”   
  
“Andre, Sir, please, I do,” Brendon murmurs, arching his back as far as it will go - the blindfold still brushing against the apples of his cheeks, the rope still biting into his wrists. He loves it secretly, loves for Andre to take control of him. And he knows that Andre loves it too, he knows that Andre loves to watch Brendon beg, loves to watch Brendon fold under him.    
  
The whip lifts from his ass for a second before the bite of pain returns. The whip bites into his skin but the blossom of pleasure and the groan that pulls from Andre’s lips makes him forget for a few brief moments. Andre’s hands press over his ass, kneading into the soft and pale skin. Another blossom of pain blooms over his back as he feels Andre slowly lower himself onto the bed, his half-hard cock pressing against the back of Brendon’s leg. Brendon groans at the sensation, as he feels the pre-come seeping over his skin, Andre’s hands mapping over every inch of skin. He hears the snick of the bottle for a moment. He thinks about the last time that Andre had his fingers in him, the last time that Andre had fucked him raw - and he groans at the thoughts. He feels Andre’s fingers curve down over his ass, swirling over the skin and dipping down to finger at his hole - but Andre teases him, his fingers brush around it slowly.  The lube is cold against his hole and it makes him tense at the sensation.    
  
“You want my fingers inside you, you slut? Like the naughty boy you are?”  He hisses, his fingers swirling round and round Brendon’s delicious ass, the younger boy gasping out underneath him - the tip of his finger slowly sliding into Brendon’s ass. The blonde arches underneath him, pulling at his bonds as Andre’s finger pushes in and out of the Kiwi’s ass slowly. Brendon breathes in heavily through his mouth as he feels Andre’s body fold against his own, Andre’s fingers slowly teasing him - the German’s other hand moving to brush over his mouth.    
  
“Suck,” Andre commands and Brendon does as he’s told.    
  
His tongue swirls over Andre’s fingers, as his other finger presses deeper into Brendon eliciting a groan from the young Kiwi. His cock leaks against Brendon’s thigh, the pre-come leaving a sticky trail over his pale skin as Andre slowly slides another finger into Brendon. The Kiwi arches up against the pressure, the slight pull of pain ripples over him for a second before it gives way to the waves of pleasure that ripple through him. He tenses his hole around Andre’s finger which draws a moan from the older man,  as Andre thrusts his fingers in and out to stretch him out.   
  
“Feel so good, feel so tight,” Andre mutters against Brendon’s ear as he crooks his fingers ever so slightly, smiling at Brendon’s groan. “Though I know that you’re hungry for my dick aren’t you?”   
  
“I am,” Brendon groans out as Andre’s fingers stroke inside him, open him up - another groan pushes past his lips as he feels the slick coating Andre’s fingers, feels the waves of pleasure curl low inside his gut. “I am so ready for your cock,”   
  
Andre tuts. “I don’t think you are,” His fingers continue to stretch Brendon out. “I don’t think you’re quite ready for your present yet,”   
  
“Please, Sir, please, I am so ready for it,” Brendon finds himself begging, almost pleading with Andre. He can feel the pull of the German’s lips as he digs his fingers a little deeper - knows that he could push another in, that Brendon’s taken his entire fist once before.  “Sir, please, I’ve been such a naughty boy,”   
  
“And naughty boys don’t get cock straight away, they have to beg for it like the bitch that they are,”   
  
“Please, please, Sir,” Brendon finds the words tumbling from his lips before he can stop them - and Andre thrusts his fingers in and out harder and faster as a response. “Please, Andre, I need you,” Brendon pleads, worrying his lip as Andre slowly withdraws his fingers from his ass. He misses the pressure, misses the sensation of being filled and a gasp pushes past his lips. However, the sensation of being empty doesn’t last long - as he hears the snick of the bottle once more. “Please, Sir, I should be punished,”   
  
“Why should I give you what you want?” Andre hisses, his hands sliding over Brendon’s hips. “When all you do is flirt with Timo and Mark?”   
  
“I don’t, I belong to you,” Brendon says, worrying his lip as he feels Andre’s hand dig into his hips to steady him. “I just want you, I need you-” He begins, almost begging, chanting Andre’s name as though it’s a mantra.    
  
He waits for the tip of Andre’s cock to press against his hole but it never comes - instead, a wet warmth envelopes his ass. He groans at the sensation, his hands tugging against the bonds as he feels Andre’s hands drift down to brush against his hardened cock. He feels Andre’s rough fingertips stroke over the sensitive skin of his shaft, slowly and lazily beginning to tug him into a rhythm as his tongue dips in and out of his asshole. The only noise is that of Andre’s wet slaps against his skin, his lips slowly sucking over the sensitive skin. Brendon feels the pleasure run through every inch of him, coarse through his veins as Andre’s fingers gently brush over his length, spreading his pre-come up the length of his cock.  His tongue teases at Brendon’s hole, saliva slick over the pucker of his ass - it feels incredible, Andre’s warm mouth teasing him. He can feel the come sliding down his dick, coating over Andre’s fingers and arches up against the touch.    
  
“Oh fuck, Andre, I’ve been so naughty-” He hisses out, bucking his hips against Andre’s hands. He’s close, but he knows that he has to ask permission to come. “I’m so close,” He calls out, Andre’s tongue still teasing over his hole, slipping into the wet hole as though to stretch it out even more. Andre snorts against him, his fingers still groping, still teasing - but the grip on Brendon’s hip is order enough.    
  
“Not yet,” Andre’s breath ghosts against the cheek of Brendon’s ass, his fingers teasing over the oozing slit of his cock, Brendon feeling the orgasm build and build, curl low inside his stomach. His tongue runs down between Brendon’s ass cheeks, folding flat against his hole before he dips inside, tracing the inner rim. Brendon gasps out at the sensation - it’s nothing like having Andre’s cock inside him - but it still feels incredible, he thinks.    
  
“Fuck, fuck, I’m going to-” Brendon pleads. “Please, Sir, I’m-”   
  
Andre nods once, his tongue still playing with Brendon’s hole as the blonde arches into the older man’s hold, stiffening as his orgasm washes over him. Brendon allows the thick, warm semen to cover Andre’s hand, back ramrod straight as he allows his body to stiffen with orgasm, his mouth falling open as a sigh parts from it. Andre always has a habit of making him feel this way. Andre’s tongue slowly pulls away from his ass and he feels a low moan at its absence before he feels the older man’s lips brushing against his cheek.    
  
“You’ve been such a good boy,” Andre murmurs, voice thick and heavy. “And you’ll be rewarded,” He continues, his lips heavy against Brendon’s cheek, his fingers still caressing the blonde’s hip.  And Brendon knows that this busy Christmas isn’t over.    



	14. those famous last words (ollie/sergey)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergey doesn’t know how it all happened - he just remembers Artem dragging him along to some party, something along the lines of it’ll be fun - those famous last words - and he remembers that various drivers from the series were piled into the lounge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my beautiful and wonderful wife, Nino. I am so sorry for this. Enjoy :)

Sergey doesn’t know how it all happened - he just remembers Artem dragging him along to some party, something along the lines of it’ll be fun - those famous last words - and he remembers that various drivers from the series were piled into the lounge. He’s not even sure whose house he is occupying but he finds it difficult to care when Artem pushes him into the couch and thrusts a bottle of beer at him. It’s not even the beer he likes - it’s more like piss water, he thinks - as he sips at it - watches Pierre gradually get drunker and drunker, his lips pressing against Stoffel’s cheek, watches Mitch slowly climb into Alex Lynn’s lap, his eyes flashing with desire. He gazes back at his bottle of beer, wishing that he could have something like that. He’s never had anything like that, never had any of the other drivers curl up in his lap or whisper how much they want to fuck him. He wonders if he’s just the type that seems unapproachable - he’s not tan or Kiwi or tall with a posh accent. He’s wearing one of his faded t-shirts and a pair of jeans which he’s sure have seen better days - he makes a note to go shopping in the new year - to find out where Alex gets his shirts from, where Mitch buys those obnoxiously tight jeans that show off his ass -    
  
“Sirotkin,” A familiar voice pipes up over the sounds of George Michael crooning about the last christmas, a voice which he remembers well from Formula Renault. He thinks about how life was back then - back in the times where he would stumble in with mussed hair and lovebites covering his neck and slide into the sister car like nothing ever happened. Ollie Rowland was one of those annoying people who always had someone on his arm, always had someone on speed dial to suck his dick and Sergey was still envious about this, even years later.    
He looks good - ridiculously good in fact, his hair slicked back from his face and his shirt clinging to his skinnier form, beer bottle held gracefully between his fingers. Sergey remembers that he still hates the Brit. Ollie gives him his widest smile before he squeezes himself into the gap between Sergey and the couch, making sure that his legs slip over the Russian’s legs.    
  
“You ignoring me, Sirotkin?” Ollie blurts out, his breath is warm against Sergey’s ear. “You going to pretend that I’m not here?”   
  
Sergey could do that, but Ollie isn’t the type who is easily ignored. Ollie is warm against his side and if Sergey wraps his arm around the Brit’s waist, he could pretend that they’re a couple, that they’re happy together, that Sergey isn’t yearning for the smallest scrap of attention. He takes another sip of his beer and finds his resolve crumbling before his very eyes - his arm winding around the Brit’s waist, pulling him in closer. Ollie smirks and melts against him, the scent of his shampoo and Lynx tickling over his nostrils.    
  
“Never thought you cared, Sirotkin,” Ollie purrs, watching him take another sip of his beer. “You could always suck my dick, you know, if you’re feeling lonely,” He purrs, batting his eyelashes at the Russian. “I wouldn’t say no,”   
  
Of course he wouldn’t. Ollie was that sort of person and it’s been a while since Sergey was intimate with someone, since he’s had sex with anyone - he barely remembers the last fumble in between the sheets. The last kiss he had is a distant memory, barely a memory against his lips. The Brit feels good against him and he can’t stop the pull of warmth against his thigh as Ollie leans in, his breath is warm against Sergey’s neck. Sergey can feel the crackle between them, the spark of something there - he knows he shouldn’t. He knows that it’s wrong. But Ollie stirs something in him, something that feels right - and he finds Ollie’s blue eyes staring into his own. The Brit leans in, and Sergey knows he should push him away, that he shouldn’t exhale in deeply -    
  
Only for Ollie’s lips never to touch his own as the Brit is wrenched away by a smirking Mitch Evans, shirt slightly open with bruises presumably from the mouth of Alex Lynn. The Kiwi mutters something about special punch and Sergey feels Ollie’s body slide away from him. It’s easy to forget about the warmth, about what happened only a few minutes ago by opening another bottle of beer. The bitter liquid sits on his tongue like the regret that sinks over his chest. He thinks about Mitch pressing Ollie up against the wall, capturing his lips with courage that Sergey did not. However, as the rest of the beer drains away, the first few bars of a familiar song fills the air - and Sergey wants to finish up his beer and leave. He does wonder where Artem has gone, presumably to suck on someone’s lips - Sergey had seen him with Marciello earlier in the evening, smirk on his lips. But any thought of Artem is wiped from his mind as Mariah continues singing and his mouth goes dry as Ollie reappears before him.    
  
The Brit doesn’t take his position at the side of Sergey once more, his blue eyes fixed on the Russian before him. Sergey squeaks a little as Ollie lowers himself into his lap, mouthing along the words with Mariah, a small smirk dancing over his lips. Sergey bites down on his lip as Ollie’s hips shift into his lap, as he feels the swirl of heat pull on his thighs. It’s been a while since he’s had anyone in his lap, it’s been a while since he’s had anyone this close. And he likes it, he finds. He likes having Ollie’s body pressed against his own, Ollie whispering about how he doesn’t want alot for Christmas in Sergey’s ear, his swollen cock pressing against the Russian’s lap.

  
“Rowland-” Sergey mutters but the Brit pays no attention to his words, his hand moving to ghost against Sergey’s cheek as he continues to grind against the Russian.    
  
“Wanted to do this for so long,” Ollie mutters in between the festive strains of Mariah still crooning away. “Wanted a reason to do this,”   
  
“Rowland, I-” Sergey begins.   
  
“If you want me to stop, just say,” Ollie purrs out and Sergey has no words. He doesn’t want it to stop, he wants to stay in this moment forever - wants to pretend that he and Ollie love each other, that they’re not both drunk and just want someone to make them feel special. Ollie’s other hand drifts down into Sergey’s lap, pressing on his swollen dick and Sergey feels the warmth surge harder.    
  
“Fuck, Rowland-”   
  
“You know, you can call me Ollie,” The Brit murmurs against Sergey’s ear, his other hand moving to curl into the soft blonde hair. “You can call me anything you want,”   
  
“Ollie,” Sergey breathes out the name. He can feel his cock tightening against his jeans, thankful that he’s not worn the tightest pair like he was intending to do. Ollie’s hand shifts slightly, slides underneath his jeans as the song changes but the Brit remains curled up in his lap and shows no signs of moving. Sergey barely realises that he’s at a party, that his mouth still tastes of bitter beer and that bad Christmas music is still blaring through the air. But none of that matters as Ollie’s lips latch onto his own, as the curve of warmth flares, Ollie’s hand fisting underneath his clothes and lazily beginning to stroke at his hardness.    
  
“So beautiful, you’re so hard for me,” Ollie whispers, his lips pulling away from Sergey’s, his hand still wrapped around Sergey’s dick - and fuck, Sergey has only had a few handjobs, the most recent one being from Artem who had smirked as he’d slowly teased the orgasm from his fellow Russian. Sergey remembers crying out in Russian, remembers the orgasm brushing over his lower abdomen, remembers how good it had felt.    
  
“Fuck, Ollie-” Sergey mutters out as he forgets that he’s sat on a couch in Mitch’s house at Christmas, with his old teammate’s hands down his pants. None of that really matters to him, not when Ollie’s lips feel so good against his own, when his hand lazily plays with Sergey’s cock, the pre-come smearing against the Brit’s fingers. It feel so good, and Sergey doesn’t want it to end. Ollie’s smirk seems to grow wider against his lips.    
  
“That can be arranged...I mean, if you want to fuck me,” He murmurs and Sergey can’t turn that down, can’t turn down the fact that there’s an attractive man sitting in his lap with ruffled hair and swollen lips touching his dick. He nods once and Ollie withdraws his hand - he smirks once more as his hand folds into Sergey, tugging him upstairs. Sergey follows him, thoughts swirling inside his mind, warmth still twisted in his thighs.    
  
Maybe all Ollie wanted for Christmas is someone to fuck him, but Sergey is more than happy to oblige. 

 


End file.
